


The Minister

by Somber_Resplendence



Category: The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1996)
Genre: Dark Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fresme, Frollo - Freeform, Frollo/Esmeralda, Frollophile, Horror, Smutty Book, So much smut, The Minister, non-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-02
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-04-29 14:50:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5131637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somber_Resplendence/pseuds/Somber_Resplendence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Judge Frollo is tasked by the King to rid the country of the foul, vulgar prose, "The Minister", he finds himself succumbed to such seductive words, however, unbeknownst to him, the author is far more seductive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Burn the Pages & Cover Your Shame Lest They See You Fall

**Author's Note:**

> My attempt at a novel length "Fresme" fanfiction.

Paris was quiet. In the distance the Notre-Dame bells could be heard like a soft humming, easing the weary to sleep in their small, itching beds made of straw and dirty cloth. Darkness consumed the sky, and the moon, accompanied by the numerous stars, graced the city once again. Children peered out of their windows, large curious eyes scanning the empty streets which not one soul dared to walk upon.

However, far off into the night, softer than the toll of the bells, a stampede drew near. Horses gently neighed and soldiers whispered back and forth, their armor clattering with their every movement, swords and shields clanking against each other. And a dark figure whose heart was of stone, much like that of the grotesque gargoyles perched atop the Notre-Dame and gazing at the city below, emerged on a dark horse, this shadow of a man which shook the very heart of the Reaper himself: Judge Claude Frollo.  

He was a soul whose exterior was withered away by time but whose interior was overwhelmed with zeal, seeking to uphold the divine laws of God and man, holy commandments and justice. And much like the slab of stone, in which the Ten Commandments were etched upon, Judge Frollo was inexpressive, cold, and hard. 

“Your Honor,” a soldier said, his eyes shadowed by his lowered visor, allowing only his dry, stern lips to be visible, “We’ve found more of them.” He dismounted his horse and neared the bookshop that sat at the edge of the street. Not a soul stirred inside, but the crimson booklet sitting behind the window, barely discernible through the darkened glass, beckoned him to draw closer. 

Judge Frollo, frowning at his soldier’s observation and directing his horse towards the shop, scoffed at the sight of the booklet. The golden words etched upon the cover winked at him: _The Minister._

“Burn it,” he ordered, his deep voice shaking the night. And though his soldiers inwardly expressed their concerns of burning the peasant owned shop they obeyed nonetheless. They lit their torches and set the shop ablaze, a bright mixture of orange and yellow consuming them and accentuating the dark shadows cast upon their faces from their lowered visors like black bats fluttering about their helms; their expressions, had they any, were completely concealed. And Frollo, his head held high and grin widening at the sight of the flames, which illuminated his hollow cheeks and stern brow, refused to spend another minute wasting his precious time. He swiftly directed his horse northwards and trailed off into the distance, for every book was to be destroyed, and he had such little time to do so. 

And then a noise caught his ears. It wasn’t the cackling of the fire that consumed the bookshop, which was now but a dark smudge upon the snow, but something foul. A shriek filled the silent night and a litter of bohemians, coughing and cursing the night, stumbled out of the burning shop, scattering about like wild animals. They had been taking refuge within the old dusty shop, concealing their souls from the one who mercilessly damned them, the judge. He despised them, that heathen race, sought to cleanse the world from their immoral practices of thievery, drink, and perversion.

“After them!” he cried, jutting a sharp finger into the cold night. His soldiers were quick to obey, roughly tugged upon the reins, and followed after the shadows of the bohemians which danced upon the buildings, guiding them in the chaos. A horde of men took to the left and another took to the right; the gypsies would be captured and slaughtered, purged along with that foul booklet. However, in the midst of the chaos of clattering armor, sneering lips, and snorting horses, a young gypsy girl found her soul in a dark place. 

Frightened and wrapped in a thin shawl that hardly offered her warmth in the bitter cold, she managed to dodge the charging horses and hide within the cluster of guards as they raced past her, pursuing her dear friends, her family, her people. However, unbeknownst to her, as she stood within the empty street, shivering and gazing at the bookshop which was still smothered by the fire, Frollo lurked behind. 

Sneering, he reached for her, pale fingers clawing at her shawl, but the warm breath of his neighing horse startled her before his flesh graced her body, and she ran. Muttering dark curses, he pursued her into the night and all that was left was the burning shop, stirred snow, and distant echoes of violent screams.  


The girl steadied herself, placing one foot in front the other and praying to a God she hadn’t known for safety from the dark shadow that pursued her in the night. And though she childishly assumed that she could outwit the menacing figure, for her life depended on the back streets of Paris, taking to the alleys for comfort and to the abandoned shops for shelter, he was no fool. He followed her trail: the chaotic and misguided footprints of his frightened prey; and he swore to slaughter the unruly heathen for stressing him so. 

However, like the panting and fidgeting prey she was, she soon exhausted herself. Her legs grew weak, unable to carry her to safety, unable to take the small but necessary steps that led to the Cathedral de Notre-Dame, _sanctuary._ And that shadow, that dark phantom, the brooding judge, lingered behind, watching her and taking pleasure in her tiresome form. Satisfied with her weakness, he restrained his horse and dismounted before approaching the panting heathen with ease. 

A firm hand fell upon her shoulder and another twisted itself within the locks of her dark hair. Shrieking, she contorted within his iron hold, cursing him, denouncing his authority, and slandering his name. 

“Silence!” he bellowed, tightening his hold upon her, but the girl was deaf to his commands. She protested endlessly, squirming like a worm and screaming like a pig being brought in for the slaughter. Temporarily liberating a hand, she lunged for the cathedral as if safety were only as simple a thing as touching the stone steps that led to the two wooden doors. Sneering, the judge fastened another hand within her hair and pulled the young girl to the ground where her hot flesh melted the snow.

Gypsy and minister wrestled with one another until her small arms failed to do her justice, allowing him to snicker in pride as he hovered above his fatigued prey. And it was in this moment, glaring down at the breathless girl whose chest rose and graced his own with every breath, that familiar, dark verses consumed his mind: _. . .minister and prisoner wrestling atop the winter’s kissed floor. . .and she kissed his neck, that warm flesh where his pulse tantalized her lips._

The perverse lines overwhelmed him as he watched the girl beneath him, glaring into her dark eyes which reflected the starless sky above, those two oubliettes. Recalling the verses he had read, he had _learned_ , he longed to practice them, dare to loosen the strap around his black tunic and claim the gypsy girl in the dead of night. And should the eyes of Notre-Dame fall upon him in his menacing act, so be it. 

Taking her wrists and pinning down her hands to the blistering frost beneath her, he drove a knee in between her legs, spreading them for his carnal desires. She whimpered in protest, dared to wriggle beneath his frame, and though he was warm, though the soft fabric of his dark cloak fell about her and curtained her from the chilly air, she attempted to withdraw from him in fear of his lewd intentions. But her dry screams were not enough to drown out the voice in his mind, the repetitive, vulgar verses which fueled his hunger for her. 

Unfastening the strap around his waist and tossing his sheath and sword to the side, he lifted his eyes to the fragile girl before him only to find a jagged, red line across her neck, and it bled. A broken poniard, too short to thrust into one’s body, but sharp enough to slit one’s neck lay in her hand; the girl was dead.  


Thick, warm blood trickled down the slope of her neck and melted the snow beneath her. And he watched with neither pity nor grief and refused to mouth a prayer for her soul. 

“Murderer!” cried a man, “Filthy murderer!” 

The judge lifted his eyes to the shrieking gypsy who was bound in shackles, two guards standing at either side of his shivering body, though it was not due to the bitter cold that he shook, but due to vengeance and despair as he gazed at his deceased daughter lying upon the snow.

“Your Honor,” called Captain Christian Bonheur, a heavyset man whose face was overwhelmed by a dark, gruff beard. “What happened here?”

Frollo refrained from answering what he deemed unnecessary and allowed the broken poniard in the gypsy girl’s hand to speak for the atrocious sight before the cathedral, however her father, the shrieking bohemian, failed to understand and howled his foreign curses into the night. 

“Execute him,” demanded the judge, who was already tiring of his shrill screams. A silent nod was exchanged between him and his captain, and with a forceful gesture, Bonheur brought his sword down atop the man’s head.  


Two bodies lay sprawled upon the snow, and as the judge mounted his horse he glanced back at the lifeless girl, studied her, and dared to wonder if her fate would have been different had those foul verses, that foul prose, never entered his mind.

“What are your orders, Your Honor?” asked Captain Bonheur, joining the judge at his side, his horse neighing and snorting. 

“Take the gypsies to the dungeons and interrogate the citizens. Those found with the book in their possession are to be brought before the Palace of Justice.”

“And what of the author, the conspirator behind this?” asked another soldier.

“Leave that to me,” hissed Frollo, his face darkening at the thought of punishing the foul individual who had destroyed his world with just a quill and ink. 

_The Minister_ had been widely distributed through back storehouses and grimy brothels within the ghettos of the city, read by many eyes and bought by many lonesome souls, for it wasn’t an ordinary book concerning the practical and numerous ministrations and principles of a minister, but a rather perverse story of suppressed, sexual desires and unholy demons that dwelled with a minister’s heart.  


And King Charles VIII was irate, astounded by the work. 

It had been the middle of January when he was alerted by his confidant of the immoral literature, by then it had been read by nearly all of the country, and without hesitation, he demanded for Judge Frollo’s presence, his most loyal friend. 

“I want this foul prose demolished—removed at all costs. It’s repulsive, vile—has the entire country swimming in ecstasy, contaminating the minds of young men and enthralling virgin women to surrender their virtue in the back alleys,” said the King, his hand clutching that damned booklet. However, at the time Frollo found the entire scenario to be rather trivial, merely furrowed his brows and clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth at the King’s orders. 

“Your Majesty,” Frollo began, clasping his hands behind his back, his black tunic rustling at his movement, “Words of prose are forgettable things, rather inconsequential. What harm could come of them?”

“Thou art questioning my authority? Questioning my decisions as King? Surely, thou art not. Tell me thou art not!”

“I am not,” he replied, his dry lips twitching in slight irritation at the King’s words. “Forgive me, Your Majesty.”

The King snickered, “Thou dost not know of the crime, the indecency of such prose.” Enraged, he threw the booklet down, the loud slapping noise of the paper hitting the floor echoing about the two men. Instantly, the King snapped his delicate fingers, calling forth a servant whose hair was unruly and tangled, eyes heavy from sleep deprivation, and ordered for the boy to gather the contents upon the floor, for such impudent literature was threatening to stain the floors of his Kingdom. 

“Read it,” demanded the King, gesturing for the servant to hand over the foul book to Frollo. It seemed so small and insignificant to him at the time, however, had he known of what the bewitching prose was about to do to him, he’d have cast the foul book into the flames and deemed it unholy at all costs. 

Carefully, he opened the book, and with a frown and jutting out his chin, glaring at the tiny, black words of impudence down the length of his aquiline nose, he read the first line he saw.

_“She lunged at him and straddled him, the Minister and the prisoner wrestling atop the winter’s kissed floor. She grasped his slender wrists, a rosary tightly wrapped around his left, and she pinned his fragile arms down, burying his hands within the ice. Had he been a stronger man, he’d have overpowered her easily, but his wounds were throbbing, blood gushing out of him, and his mind whirled.”_

Frollo darkly chuckled, tore his sights away from the booklet and repeated his firm statement, “Your Majesty, such words are trivial. The book depicts violence—mere classifications of my duty as judge, for many prisoners are tortured to the point where blood gushes out of one’s wounds.”

The King remained silent, seated in a chair with his lips pursed and brow lowered. And then a curt smile contorted his face. 

“Finish it,” he ordered. 

Frollo refrained from sneering and obeyed, gazing down at the small black letters yet again.

_“Gently, she leaned down and pressed her lips onto his and carefully moved to his sharp jaw line. Her delicate fingers tugged at his tall, white collar, and she kissed his neck—”_

He stopped, dared not read anymore, for his face was growing hot and his heart was beginning to pound as if he had been caught practicing such ill mannerisms as the story described. The King merely grinned, leaned back in his seat, and gestured for the judge to continue. Frollo audibly gulped, but managed to keep his dry lips pursed, his face as emotionless as stone. 

_“. . . and she kissed his neck, that warm flesh where his pulse tantalized her lips. The Minister sighed at her touch and lost his virtue as her hands slithered down his chest and to his pelvis, lifting his cassock, searching for—”_

“Perhaps such words are not trivial after all?” asked the King, interrupting the judge.

“Heathens, Your Majesty,” replied Frollo, “They are foul creatures, and only such creatures could have conjured such words—nevertheless they remain trivial.” The King nodded in false agreement and crossed his arms, golden robes rustling as Frollo continued, “However, by your divine order I shall abolish each and every one and cast them into the fire where they belong.” And as natural as a reflex, he flung the booklet into the flames of the fireplace, the pages catching aflame and curling up, corners blackening, the words forever destroyed. 

“I applaud thee,” remarked the King, gently tapping his hands upon one another. “Thou art a holy man. I respect thee. And I trust thee can cleanse my country of such ludicrous nonsense, for the people have lost their senses, polluted their minds with such vulgar prose.”

“Merci, Your Majesty,” replied Frollo before being escorted out of the King’s private quarters. He held a proud smirk upon his face, his aged features violently contorting, and he held his head high, this self-righteous man of God. But when he returned to the Palais de Justice, his own Kingdom where he ruled as divine, he found himself in an odd circumstance, specifically when his duties had ceased at the invitation of the moon filling the sky.

Returning to his private quarters, left to toil in his thoughts, such words haunted him, damned him, and inflamed his heart. He resorted to his library, retrieved God’s Holy Book, and immersed himself in the Latin verses he knew so well. It was in vain, for such Holy and promising words contorted, and his eyes found themselves hungrily scanning over words of impurity. And as his lips silently mouthed such verses, they quickly found themselves mouthing that last sentence he dared to know the ending of: _The Minister sighed at her touch and lost his virtue as her hands slithered down his chest and to his pelvis, lifting his black robes and searching for. . .”_

Searching for, oh! how he dared to imagine. He tugged at his tunic, for the room had grown hot as a furnace, and his face, cold sweat dribbling down his temples, deepened to a violent red. And though he fought to remain calm, fought to battle such unholy thoughts which were rapidly consuming his once Holy mind, he couldn’t resist those beautiful words, imagining such delicate fingers tugging at _his_ collar, a woman’s lips gracing the hot flesh of _his_ neck. He dreamed of finding himself in such a situation, a beautiful woman straddling him upon the ivory snow of winter, warm kisses trailing down the work of _his_ jaw. 

He sneered, “Nay.” He dug his fingers into his palms, clenching his hands into fists. “They are forgettable,” he reminded himself, “forgettable and inconsequential.” He chanted this statement over and over, but those words were anything but insignificant. 

In time, they threatened his title and shook the chains of his celibacy, those words. They echoed in his mind, drove him mad with desire, leading him to scribble them down, those vulgar words, whenever and wherever he could, whether it be across pardons and policies or in the Holy Book itself. And he damned himself for destroying the booklet which had grown heavier in his hands with each passing second. If only he could return and piece the remaining shrivels of parchment together. If only he could know that last line and quench his lustful passions.


	2. The Shadows of Thieves

In the silent hours of the morning, when the sun had yet to grace the world and when the birds had yet to soothe listening ears with a cheery song, Judge Frollo stood above the city of Paris, brooding in his private quarters. Glowering at the few individuals who greeted the first light with a yawn and a brisk stroll into the market, he pondered their destination. Taking a sip of wine from his goblet, allowing the rich, bitter taste to conquer his senses and rouse him, he imagined walking amongst the Parisians as they strolled through the labyrinthine streets. For he had imagined that they’d indirectly and unintentionally lead him to the root of that foul prose, one of which he deemed was written by that of a heathen, an outcast, a gypsy.

“The Cour de Miracles,” he drawled before quickly taking another sip of wine as a means of rinsing his mouth from the vulgar words in which he spoke. It had been a rumor, a small piece of conversation passed through the cracks in brothels, that the Cour de Miracles was a thief’s hideout; and though no Parisian had ever ventured inside the eerie melting pot of cut-purses and vagabonds, the rumor was spread nonetheless. However, Judge Frollo hadn’t been one to dwell upon gossiping words, yet he believed that such a place existed.

As a boy, energetic and curious as any youngling would be, he’d depart to the stables and drag a tree branch along the dirt path he took as a means of marking his trail for his imaginary soldiers to follow. And when he’d arrive, quietly rounding a corner and discarding his branch within a heap of hay, he’d peer up at a solemn man who sat atop a dark horse,

“Father, where art thou going?” 

“A questioning child is worse than disobedience. However, such disobedience will be vanquished today—be proud of your father, boy, the Cour de Miracles will be conquered.” 

“Where is the Cour de Miracles? Is it far?” he’d probe further, as if gently poking the hardened man with his discarded tree branch.

“Ask not another question, boy,” his father would sneer, raising a hand in authority as if to strike him across the face, “Now, make haste and return to the Palace.”

His father, though diligent in his work and respected for his continued success of keeping the safety of Paris up to par with the King and his officials, grew obsessed with his ministrations—sought to rid the world of thieves rather than punishing them for their heinous crimes in hopes they’d not commit them a second time.  


“No one deserves a second chance,” he’d preach, “Once a thief tastes the sin of crime, he’ll commit them again and again until his ecstasy cannot be satisfied.”

Many began to deem him mad, claimed he had lost his senses upon the passing of his wife who neither held a smile as she walked amongst the Parisians when attending Mass at the Cathedral de Notre-Dame nor bid her own child a parting smile as he accompanied his brooding father on his daily rounds of the city. And upon his final breath, which hadn’t been words of an undying love for his only child, Claudius Frollo, he told the boy of a black notebook that sat in a hole in the leg of his desk. It was a journal, a bound booklet of confessions which spoke of a secret gathering of bohemians and vagabonds: The Cour de Miracles. 

“Your Honor,” called Captain Bonheur from the crack of the door, waking his master from his thoughts, “The preparations have been met.”

“Very good,” responded the judge, taking another sip of wine as he glanced at the city one last time, one thought lingering within: _To find the Cour de Miracles is to find the hand which wrote ‘The Minister’._

A thick, heavy cloud of smoke clogged the sky and drained the morning of its happiness, leaving the Parisians under a grey shadow as they moseyed about, some with a basket of fish and others with a warm baguette. However, one woman in particular, standing at the foot of her door, crinkled her nose and scowled at the foul stench that sickened her. And before she could lift her eyes and ponder the dingy smell which revolted her, she spied a far more revolting scene: Judge Frollo marching with his faithful guard. 

His presence alarmed the Parisians, silently ordered them to make way for his snorting horse as it trotted past, heavy hooves pummeling into the cobblestone. He refrained from looking at them, found it tiresome to lower his gaze to their level, and reminded himself that it was in their natural right to abide by his orders and surrender their respect and gratitude to him for keeping to his duties: bringing justice to Paris. And he too, much like the woman who lurked in her doorway, crinkled his nose at the foul stench of burning which lingered in the air; although it was due to his own actions that the heavy smog clogged the city (burning peasant owned bookshops to the ground), he deemed it false and soothed his pride by placing the blame upon the gypsies whom he knew were at fault. 

He came to a halt. The woman in her doorway gasped and quickly downcast her gaze, for she assumed that it was her repulsed glower which had stirred his anger. She was right. He focused upon her, slightly snickered at the dirty apron tied about her large waist, and attempted to address her impious nature, however a low wind rolled by and with it came a few stray parchments with burnt edges, black words fluttering down the streets of Paris. And as they floated about, tiny hands reached for them, madly collecting them and stuffing them within a flour sack; it was a small gypsy boy. 

Judge Frollo would have ignored the brat had the child not have interrupted the attempted scolding he was about to bestow upon the woman with the dirty apron. But it was inevitable and perhaps planned. The gypsy boy grabbed the burnt parchments, scrunched them in his hands, the loud crinkling sound irritating the brooding judge and causing him to slightly twitch, and he crumbled them into a ball. 

But with the weight of the judge’s glower resting upon his small, childish shoulders, the boy gasped at the sight of the ruthless man and refrained from movement. Perhaps, in his youthful mind, he thought that he would remain unseen by the judge if he stood still and attempted to blend in with the city, either that or the child was fear stricken. Nevertheless he remained motionless. 

“You there,” said a rather thick guard, pointing a gloved finger at the meager child, “Clean up that mess.” 

Frollo smirked upon the orders and directed his hardened gaze back to the woman whose eyes had grown weary at the sight of the gypsy boy. And then, instantly, they lit a glow as a clump of parchment soared through the air and struck the judge, summoning a stream of blood to trickle down his grimacing lips, for within the parchment laid a heavy rock. Sneering and wiping at the red stain upon his face, the judge sharply averted his eyes and inwardly cursed the boy as the lingering Parisians held back their mocking laughter behind upraised hands. 

He’d have approached the boy, struck him across the face for such insolence, but deemed such actions unwise, not due to compassion but due to the fact that the child ran. The boy relied upon his dark, skinny limbs to carry him far, and in this sense he was like a mouse scurrying away to the cracks at the greeting of a candle’s light entering a dark room. And Frollo pursued him.

Though he was infuriated over his impending humiliation, he couldn’t resist the wicked grin which grew upon his face as he charged after the gypsy brat, for he assumed he’d lead him to that ghastly congregation, the Cour de Miracles. Captain Bonheur and the other lingering guards trailed close behind, the reign of galloping horses and clattering armor echoing about the city. The boy led them deep within the network of Paris, however his small shadow which flickered upon the alley walls never fell out of the judge’s sight as he pursued him, and soon his shadow grew dark and large as a bright, orange light swallowed him. 

Halting, Frollo lifted his eyes to the orange blaze before him and discarded his previous thoughts of the smog that consumed Paris. Though he had denied the fact such smoke was created due to his duty, burning bookshops in the name of the King lest The Minister be read by innocent eyes, he now fully denied it as his eyes fell upon a gypsy bonfire. Bundles of twigs and thistles covered the ground and incoherent chanting numbed his ears. It was foul, their gathering. It was heathenish and damnable. 

“Your Honor,” said Captain Bonheur from behind as he and other guards approached, “What are your orders?”

Frollo snickered, “Attack.”

Bonheur flinched upon his words, scratched at his beard, and grimaced, for he had hoped they would be ordered to snatch the troublesome boy and issue him a day in the stocks. But such hopes were purged. And as the weary captain peered at the glowing fire which was surrounded by a mass of bohemians and vagabonds alike, he spied a makeshift gibbet and whispered a prayer before addressing his concerns. “Your Honor, with all due respect, we haven’t the army for that.”

“Never you mind that, Captain. Gypsies are anxious things. They will come willingly lest they be broken upon the wheel.” 

Bonheur refrained from replying and silently mouthed curses under his breath as he questioned his master’s sanity. And as the horde of men began to venture into the blazing light of the bonfire, Frollo raised a pale hand and halted them, for the scene which unveiled itself to him was odd.

A young girl, no older than sixteen, stood amidst the jeering crowd of gypsies. They pranced about her, shouted curses, and deemed her unworthy. But she held her head high and refused to glance at the grotesque faces which contorted under the flickering flames of the burning thistles. Her dark, exposed shoulders were pulled back due to the twine which bound her wrists behind her, and it allowed for her bust to be pressed forward, stressing the seams of her white blouse; she was like a statue in this form, motionless and oddly domineering. 

“Fit her with the noose!” cried a gurgled voice from the crowd, summoning a loud cheer to follow. A man came forth and collected the rope which was tethered to the girl, pulled upon it, and brought her body crashing to the hot ground. The gypsies neared her, stomped their dirty feet about her body, kicking dirt into her face and stomping about her dark curls. She was an outcast among outcasts; a gypsy among gypsies. 

“Damn la Esmeralda!” they cried, chanting the phrase over and over, “Damn the traitor!” Dirty hands tore at her clothing, ripped the flimsy material, and left her body partially exposed as her executioner dragged her along the ground. He neared the makeshift gibbet, the tormenting symbol of death. Its heavy shadow fell upon the young girl they called Esmeralda and she neither shivered nor prayed to God for hope, for she didn’t fear the consequences of her crimes. 

And he’d have dragged her up the wooden steps had she not have staggered to her tired feet and climbed the eerie steps herself, ascending to Hell. Impatient and eager to please the jeering crowd, the executioner snatched her bare arm and pulled her into his embrace where a thick rope greeted her in his grasp. 

“You’ll die as he died,” said the executioner, “wriggling from a noose.” Her eyes widened and her lips parted in an attempt to address his peculiar words, but she was silenced by a scarf which was tied about her mouth. He chuckled, pulled back her hair with his bloodthirsty fingers, and fitted her slender neck with the noose. 

“She is a criminal among criminals,” said Captain Bonheur as he gawked at the scene. However, no snickering retort from the judge followed his words, for the brooding man was lost in his own affairs: ecstasy. The girl was a riveting sight; whether it was her prideful smirk as she stood upon the brink of the abyss or her large bosom which rapidly rose up and down with each uneven breath, she was a sight to behold nonetheless. 

Music erupted in the forbidden place, drunkards sung about her dark fate and sultry gypsy women, red silk gracing their shapely forms, danced to a tune which was Esmeralda’s funeral song. Children ran about, their hands full of scraps of goods in which they had managed to steal, and old men flirted with young girls in hopes their bed would be warm. And though the thieves were lost in their shallow, drunken stupor, a tambourine fell to the ground and a woman shrieked, for a sword protruded from the gut of a gypsy man who sat near the alley walls. 

Blood gushed forth and the festivity ended; the music died, the dancing stopped, and all eyes were no longer upon Esmeralda and her executioner, but upon Judge Frollo as he withdrew his sword with a grunt from the unfortunate gypsy. 

“Arrest them,” he ordered, and his men diligently obeyed. They spilled into the gathering, snatching the old and the young, the women and the men. They adorned their fragile wrists with shackles, tangled their hands with heavy chains, and fashioned their bodies in such a way that each gypsy was linked to another, this endless train of filth which was to be marched back to the Palais de Justice. Some wept over their dark fate, others attempted to flee only to find a spear lodged in their chest, and the executioner, who once held the chanting crowd in his grasp, fell to his knees as a stray arrow struck him in the gut, leaving Esmeralda to wriggle out of her binding and tear the noose from her neck.

She leapt into the crowd below and searched for the one soul who neither damned her nor defended her during her execution, Nadya. She was an older woman of about thirty—held a gentle face and a soft voice; never spoke out of line and always remained loyal to her values. In her youth she’d dance for silver in the streets and sing songs for the young men who gawked at her, and in time she taught Esmeralda to do as such; However when age made her less desirable, she’d lure desperate men into her bed and quench their thirst with wine before making off with the bit of silver hidden in their purse. But as fate would have it, she learned to love and remain faithful to a man, bearing his children and sharing his bed. 

“Hurry,” said Esmeralda, snatching Nadya by the arm, “We mustn’t linger.” She pulled the woman away and attempted to dry her tears which fell not from the violence that surrounded them but from regret and sorrow, for though she had deemed Esmeralda’s execution unjust, she also hadn’t wished to join her upon the gibbet for defending her. But Esmeralda was a kind spirit and hushed the woman with a soft kiss upon the cheek as they scurried away. From afar they looked like sisters, the younger one calming the elder, though no relation was to be found; and how unfortunate that their bond would end as a hand roughly snatched one of them by the wrist.

“You think you’ve escaped me,” sneered the judge as he reeled the woman into his presence, however at the sight of her dismal eyes and trembling lips, he grimaced. She was not the young girl he saw upon the gibbet, the one they called La Esmeralda. Furious, he lifted his eyes beyond the trembling woman he held and spied the young girl, her shapely form vanishing into the dark shadows cast by the burning flames of the bonfire. 

“Have mercy, m’lord,” Nadya whimpered, “Have mercy upon me, for I’ve children.” She wriggled in his hold but found that his grip upon her was tightening due to the realization of losing the soul in which he sought. However, Nadya, in fear of being led to the gallows, scratched at his fingers in desperation of prying him off of her, summoning blood to ooze from the wounds and run down the work of his knuckles. And he, presently unaware of her existence, instantly flinched from the strike of pain she bestowed upon him and raised his hand to strike the whimpering woman only to be halted by a soldier’s voice.

“Be still, gypsy!” the soldier ordered as he attempted to bind the wrists of a gypsy man who was pinned to the ground. Captain Bonheur oversaw the arrest, glared down at the man and shook his head in disappointment.

“Captain,” said Frollo, “Execute her.” He shoved Nadya forward and scoffed as she stumbled before Bonheur who watched her momentarily, scratched at his beard, and then drew his sword. The blade came down but neither struck Nadya nor the ground. He had halted.

“I’m waiting, Captain,” said Frollo whose eyes narrowed upon the soldier who knew not what to do.

“The woman has children,” he said, refusing to look down upon her as he spoke so as to not convince her that he was her savior, for he was anything but that. 

“I’ve no concern of a heathen’s offspring,” retorted the judge, instantly yearning to issue forth for his captain’s execution as well. But then a much wiser thought dawned upon him as Bonheur’s words repeated themselves in his mind.

“Very well,” he concluded with a wicked grin, “lock her up with the others.” Bonheur slowly nodded and carefully reached for Nadya who cooperated and surrendered to him out of fear. Hot tears streamed down her face as he led her away with the others, and she thought of her children, her two boys beaming up at her. And the judge thought of them as well, wondered if they hid within the Cour de Miracles and wondered how long Nadya would suffer under the whip until she spoke of its location.


	3. Catherine Wheel

The scent of blood tickled the judge's nose as he descended into the network of dungeons where the lot of murderers, vagabonds, and cutpurses dwelled in grief. Their bodies, some large and others small, were contorted into odd and unusual positions, for the damp cells offered little room and mocked them in their servitude. Those which had been lucky enough to have their chests pressed up against the rusted bars of the cell, allowed to breath in the air that hung about the dark corridors rather than suffocate within the mass of bodies, transfixed their dismal eyes upon the judge as he sauntered past. He'd have had them all executed had he wore the King's crown, but it was not his fate; in fact, his fate had been delivered that morning upon the King's order.

"Thou hast yet to fulfill my orders," said the King as he lounged in his seat, picking at the dead skin that lined his fingernails. "My city is burning and my officials are questioning such actions."

"Origins of the book stem from Paris, Your Majesty," said Judge Frollo as he stood before the throne, "It is in my judgment that the author will be caught if the city he lives within suffers due to his outlandish actions—inking such prose."

"Thou speak diligently," the King drawled, still fixated upon his fingers and the stubborn bit of flesh that refused to break away. "However, I grow impatient. I do not condone thy ministrations."

"Gypsies are cunning creatures. They hide within the cracks of the city, however smoking them out—"

"Thou shall capture this fiend lest thou be broken upon the wheel," interrupted the King, whose eyes sharply pierced the judge and condemned him. Though he had once looked fondly upon the old man, he reveled in the idea of overseeing his execution, for he hadn't tasted blood since the wars; and he craved it.

Frollo faltered, rubbed at his spindly fingers which twisted about behind his back, and immersed himself in the troubling thought of his limbs being tethered to the spokes of the breaking wheel. It was a daunting fate, one of which left his soul shuddering from the fear of pain that not even the promise of entering Heaven's gates could calm. And with a slight nod, he accepted the King's orders and dismissed himself, one image lingering in his mind: the sight of the gypsy girl they called, La Esmeralda, standing before the gibbet without fear as the executioner adorned her neck with the noose.

"M'lord," called a voice, waking the brooding judge from his thoughts as he glided about the dark corridors. "M'lord, please have mercy." A dark, feminine hand reached out from the iron bars of a dingy cell, fingers wriggling and yearning to touch something warm, though warmth was nowhere to be found. She tugged at his arm, curled her fingers about the warm fabric that graced his narrow form, and pleaded with him. However, distraught from the meddling affairs which consumed his mind, he snickered and struck her hand.

A loud shriek reverberated off the walls and the woman reeled in her throbbing hand, rubbing at her fingers which surrendered to a light shade of red. Frollo grimaced, straightened his dark tunic where her filthy hand had stained him, and vanished within the darkness of the corridors, her whimpers following him in his descent to the dungeons that dwelled below.

Incoherent voices lingered about the lower level and summoned a disdainful grunt from the judge who rubbed at his aching forehead. They pained him, pounded upon his skull, and left him agitated, for they mixed with the voices within, creating a muddled battle of words and dull arguments; traces of his father's demands circled about, mocking him for his lack of ingenuity in regards to the Cour de Miracles, and the King's threat, which hung from a thin line much like that of a spider's thread, dangled about the spokes of the breaking wheel; however, one voice which was neither louder than the rest nor unheard, was his own, chanting and rehearsing the vulgar lines he had come to learn, the lines that graced the pages of _The Minister._

Nevertheless, tormented as he was, he entered the chamber where he had hoped his answers laid, awaiting to be spilled from a gypsy's lips. The creaking of the door alarmed the soldier within the cell and demanded for his obedience as he withdrew his bloodied whip and straightened his form in the presence of Judge Frollo who neither bid him a greeting nor a glance.

"She refuses to speak, Your Honor," said the soldier, gesturing towards Nadya whose limbs where bound and shackled to a wall. Her head hung down, allowing her dark curls to curtain her battered face, and the other unfortunate gypsies who shared her cell, a couple of young men and a sniveling youth, hung their heads as well and withheld their curses.

"Where is Captain Bonheur?" asked Frollo, grimacing at the absence of the man.

"In the city," replied the solider, "He left this morning—said it was urgent."

"Intriguing," he drawled as he conjured up the scene of Bonheur standing before his desk, explaining his pathetic excuses as to why he had left. "Well, no matter. You are dismissed."

Upon his orders, the soldier bowed and scurried out of the cell, for he feared the judge's wrath. And though blood dripped from the whip he had held, he knew his master's torments were far worse.

"It seems that my lieutenant has yet to summon a confession from you," said Frollo as he retrieved the whip and neared Nadya who appeared to hang lifelessly from the chains.

"She's nothing to confess," said a lanky gypsy man who was bound to the wall adjacent to the door. Frollo bid him a sharp glance but quickly discarded his retort and directed his gaze back to Nadya who still remained motionless; it was due neither to her obstinacy nor her fear for the judge, but due to her overwhelming grief over her two young boys.

"Need I remind you that you were caught in the process of aiding a thief?" asked Frollo, coiling the cord of the whip around his hand in hopes that the sense of foreboding would shake her to her right mind, though he deemed all gypsies to be rather mindless. "It would be wise of you to speak when spoken to."

"Esmeralda is no thief," she said in a croaky voice, one that had been used to the limits at the crack of the whip upon her body.

"A fiend nonetheless, I'm sure," he said, absentmindedly dragging the remaining length of the cord of the whip along the curve of her body, for her shapely form resembled that of Esmeralda's. However, upon lifting her eyes to him, he grimaced and withdrew, for though the two women favored one another, her eyes neither shimmered nor held the beauty of that of Esmeralda's.

"Leave the girl be," said the lanky gypsy.

"Silence!" Frollo sneered, averting his gaze to the pestering man and striking him, leaving a thin, red line across his face. A stream of blood flowed down the bridge of his nose and the work of his cheek, and he inwardly cursed himself, satisfying the judge and summoning fear in the pits of every other prisoner within the cell. And when silence returned, allowing for the bickering voices within Frollo's mind to speak volumes, he turned back to Nadya and addressed his plight,

"Tell me where you've hidden them lest I find them myself. And I assure you, I've no need to keep them alive."

Nadya choked upon his words as if they were forced down her throat and ordered to seize her heart which only beat for her sons. "With her."

Her. Esmeralda, the beautiful criminal who both intrigued the old judge and infuriated him the same. And he grinned at the realization of bringing her, along with the other gypsies he assumed dwelled within the Cour de Miracles, to the Palais de Justice. The voices within silenced themselves as he darkly chuckled, for he was living up to the expectations of his deceased father and he was evading the Catherine Wheel by drawing closer to proving to the King that such a vulgar prose as _The Minister_ was inked by a heathen.

"Where are they—where is the Cour de Miracles?" He tightened his hold upon the whip should Nadya fail to satisfy him with the location. However, she was helpless.

"Pont Notre-Dame," she wept, recalling the small house she, her husband, and her sons had lived within near the wooden bridge. And though the blissful memory evoked mixed feelings within her swelling heart, the judge snarled, for the memories he recalled at the mention of the bridge were slighting. Thieves and cutthroats were known to travel along it, robbing the Parisians and leaving their dead bodies dangling about the edge, rotted limbs gracing the waters of the Seine below. However, the memory of the young criminal, Esmeralda, her large bosom and exposed flesh, which peeked out from the rips and tears in her garment, was a treasured one that tugged at the chains which bound the judge to the pages of the Holy Book.

"Should I uncover nothing, you will be hanged at dawn for falsification," he said, pleased with her confession yet apprehensive regarding her honesty, for he deemed gypsies as lying creatures; they refused the normal social order and the truth of the Holy Book and instead committed themselves to their own order, a heathen order, one of which he longed to purge.

The lanky gypsy man, who had since then silenced himself at the touch of the whip, whimpered, summoning a dark glance from Frollo. Reaching for the whip yet again, he turned towards the man and instantly withheld his strike at the sight of Captain Bonheur standing in the doorway with a familiar booklet clutched in his hands.

"If I may speak with you, Your Honor," he said, fumbling with the booklet as if the very sinful nature of it burned through his gloves and scorched his flesh. The judge obliged and joined the soldier in the dark corridor.

"Your absence did not go unnoticed, Captain. I detest such things," he began, glowering at his captain whose actions had not only upset him but stirred his suspicions.

"Forgive me, but word was passed to me this morning—two abandoned storehouses near Pont Notre-Dame were filled with copies of the book." Following his words, he surrendered the crimson booklet to the judge who was more than wary of taking the literature in his hands. Though, as to not show his fault, he firmly grasped the booklet and grimaced while glancing down at the golden, glimmering title: _The Minister._

"We are awaiting your orders," said Bonheur who was unaware of the war being waged within his master.

"Very well," concluded Frollo, "Burn them, all of them."

Bonheur nodded. And as the judge left to his private chambers, grinning at the thought of growing closer to discovering the author of the booklet who he assumed dwelled within the Cour de Miracles, Bonheur refrained from asking why he had left with the booklet in his hands.

* * *

The Notre-Dame's evening bells chimed but failed to penetrate the judge as he ruminated before the cackling fire in his private quarters; however, at the arrival of a low wind rolling in through the open balcony, stirring the pages of the open book upon his desk, _The Minister_ , he faltered. He had been contemplating reading the lines since Bonheur surrendered the prose to him. And though he muttered comforting biblical verses, he found it rather difficult to concentrate as the pages of _The Minister_ danced and beckoned him in the evening wind.

Groaning and rubbing at his aching mind, he tore his thoughts away from the tormenting booklet and averted his eyes, focused on the dancing flames, and reminded himself that if his eyes dared grace the pages of _The Minister_ then Hell would surely await him. Yet, as he remained transfixed upon the waves of the dancing flames, he drifted into a hallucination and spied a curvaceous, female form, one that danced with sin and embraced the flames.

Enticed and tempted by the enflamed beauty that beckoned him with teasing lips and beckoning hands, he sneered, "Nay." He reached for the goblet of wine sitting atop the mantle, though he yearned to reach for the tempting female form in fire. He took the rim to his lips, feeling the warm sensation of the goblet, though he yearned to feel the warm sensation of a woman's lips upon his own. And he swallowed the bitter drink, though he yearned to swallow the love of a willing maiden; or perhaps he yearned to swallow her love whether she was willing or not.

"Nay!" he repeated, throwing the goblet into the fire as if to eliminate the snickering beauty. But her laugh followed his furious actions and mocked him as he withdrew from the fire—Hellfire!

Infuriated and snarling, he crossed towards the desk, drew his dagger, and drove the glinting blade into the open booklet. He slide the weapon back, ripping the page in two, and withdrew the blade, only to drive it back into the booklet again. And after his wrath had been unleashed, he found that shrivels of parchment floated about his panting body and stuck to his hot, sweat-slicked skin. But his fall was inevitable, and like a mad savage he collected each piece and desperately worked to puzzle them together in hopes that his lustful thirst would be quenched.

And then his eyes fell upon a repaired page and madly darted across the familiar lines in which he had once read in the King's throne, those lines he had once yearned to know the ending to:

* * *

The Minister

_Pg 4: Tasting the Savior_

The Minister averted his gaze and clutched at his side where a gaping wound leaked blood and stained his cassock. He had been wounded in the brawl, but it was the worth the agony to see the girl survive and take another breath and face another day, even if she was but a prisoner in the tomb of his heart. However, she was indifferent. And as he turned away from her and staggered back to the cathedral, the Holy building which beckoned him and whispered promises of salvation and hope, she shoved him to the ground where the snow kissed his body.

He crumbled before her and lay still, for his wounds were great and he was beyond exhaustion. A low snicker escaped him, and through the pain he turned over and sharply glanced at the fury-stricken girl whose eyes pierced his heart and led him to realize that all hope was lost. He was bound to her, suffered from the lustful passions that strangled him in the night at the thought of her, and secretly yearned for a kiss from her.

She lunged at him for dare making a move and straddled him, the Minister and prisoner wrestling atop the winter's kissed floor. She grasped his slender wrists, a rosary tightly wrapped around his left, and she pinned his fragile arms down, burying his hands within the ice. Had he been a stronger man, he'd have overpowered her easily, but his wounds were throbbing, blood gushing out of him, and his mind whirled.

Gently, she leaned down and pressed her lips onto his and carefully moved to his sharp jaw line. Her delicate fingers tugged at his tall, white collar, and she kissed his neck, that warm flesh where his pulse tantalized her lips. The Minister moaned at her touch and lost his virtue as her hands slithered down his chest and to his pelvis, lifting his cassock, searching for that hardened member which had been prodding her since she mounted him.

She chuckled as she peeled away the blood-soaked material which barred her from his sinful passions. And though she pitied this man for placing his life within Satan's clutches in order to save her from the inevitable fall, she grinned as she neared his exposed flesh and took pleasure in running her tongue along the trail of blood which ran from his lower abdomen to his pelvis. And he forgot about the pain that surged through him and relished the pleasure she delivered upon him.

* * *

A knock came from the door and Frollo swiped the battered booklet off of his desk, concealing his actions and hiding his shame.

"Good evening, Your Honor. Orders have been met," said Captain Bonheur, slightly grimacing at the frustrated judge who nodded in response and flicked his hand in dismissal. He hadn't expected the hour to fall upon him so quickly, nevertheless he reveled in the idea of pursuing Pont Notre-Dame.

However, upon approaching the wooden bridge which nearly masked itself under the dark shadows of the evening sun that mildly melted the snow, he and his men found that the lot was desolate.

"Search the storehouses," he ordered, irritably tightening his grip upon the reins of his horse. The soldiers took to his commands, dismounted, and poked about the abandoned shacks. Some drew their swords and prepared for a brawl in case a pack of gypsies were to scurry out of the darkened buildings; others rummaged through the debris of torn down walls and shattered windows. And as the men surveyed the storehouses, an odd noise caught Frollo's ear which was neither the clattering armor of his men nor their busy hands shuffling through the rubbish. It came from the walls of the storehouse—sounded as if claws were being dragged along the foundation, a lonesome creature scratching and begging to be liberated.

With knitted brows, he directed his horse to the ominous noise and dismounted. He attempted to poke about the walls of the building with his sword, jabbed the sharp blade through the rotted wood, but found that when he retrieved his blade, no blood dripped from it edges. Snarling, he sheathed the weapon; and upon mounting his horse he spied an intriguing scene, one that consumed and overpowered his fading thoughts over the noise he had heard. And when the soldiers abandoned their duties, taking notice of their master's interest and following his gaze, a few of them grinned, others darkly chuckled, but one took action and withdrew his bow upon Frollo's order which had been given by the motion of a hand.

An arrow cut through the silence that had fallen with the snow and struck a large, darkened figure who had been leading a small makeshift raft along the river. A blood-curdling scream followed the crash of the body falling into the Seine; and two figures clothed in vibrant garments and rattling jewels leapt onto the surface, gracing Paris's ground for the first time. However, their cold feet did not carry them far as Frollo's men surrounded the two, an older man and his young wife, with outstretched swords and wielded bows.

The man, who refused to surrender to the soldiers whose faces were shadowed by their visors, drew his dagger and barred his teeth which glistened beneath his heavy mustache. He proposed that his dead body would be dragged to the depths of the Palais de Justice rather than being led quietly. And perhaps it was his ill temper that had plagued him since he was boy or the deep rooted hatred he held for the grimacing judge that prompted him to lunge at the soldiers. A sword swiped at his body and an arrow pierced his hand, followed by another piercing his side. His dagger, stained with his own spurting blood, fell to the ground and lost itself within the snow as he lost his life.

The woman, who had been watching in horror, clutched the sack cloth she held within her arms and silently withdrew from the river of blood that trickled towards her.

"Be still!" cried Captain Bonheur, jabbing an armored finger at her. He had been watching the young woman, took note of how her eyes glanced to their horses which had been left at the storehouses, just mere feet away. Yet, upon watching her, he noticed that the sack cloth she so desperately held onto as if it were her own fleeting life, wriggled in her arms.

"What have you got there?" he questioned with furrowed brows, nearing her with his upraised sword.

"Stolen goods," said Frollo, addressing her unfortunate plight with a grimace. She shivered at his accusation, shook her head (for she hadn't the voice to speak), and dug her fingers into the sack cloth, pressing it tight against her bosom. However, her stance was faulty. She had stolen it—stolen it from the well it had been left to rot within, for she had promised to love it and care for it, deemed it as a blessing from God who had finally answered her prayers.

Bonheur's strong hand reached out from the horde of soldiers and tore the sack cloth from her as if ripping her own heart from her fear-stricken being. She clawed at the captain, though her nails did little to nothing to mark his flesh, and she wrestled with his overwhelming grip upon the sack cloth she had sworn to protect. But at his throaty command and drawn sword, she shivered and withdrew from him, took to the only other option she had left: the horses.

She charged at the snorting beasts and reached for the reins, except her grip was insufficient; and Frollo, though without his own steed, was fast approaching with fury in his eyes. Yelping at the mere sound of his advance, she discarded her plans and ran, leading him within the vast network of alleys. But her bare feet grew numb within the snow, and her fingers, which were outstretched before her panting face as a means of steadying her frantic sprint, slammed into the wall in front of her. She was trapped.

Frollo snickered from behind, drew his dagger as if it were as essential as breathing (and in this moment it was evermore essential in regard to their mad dash), and staggered towards her. She whimpered before him, drew up her arms, and shielded her face in an attempt to hide her shame. But her actions, innocent as they might have seemed, summoned the blade to come down upon her.

A ghastly sound like that of fabric being ripped echoed in her ears, and a red, jagged line graced her chest, naked breasts revealed underneath the shredded garment. And it was in this moment that those dark and forbidden words of the foul prose consumed the judge as he contemplated running his tongue along the trail of blood that slid down the curve of her breasts.

"Nay," he said, turning his eyes away from the tempting gypsy who knew not what she stirred within him. He thought of biblical verses, recited the lines in his head which spoke of the harsh punishment for sexual immorality, but the flame within his chest grew and overwhelmed his being. Soon his holy thoughts twisted like that of the limbs of the unjust upon the Catherine Wheel and mislead him: _Let her be as the loving hind and pleasant roe; let her breasts satisfy thee at all time; and be thou ravished always with her love._ (Proverbs 5:19)

"A moth into a butterfly," he murmured as he pressed his body against hers and slid his hand down the slope of her breast. She whimpered, nearly choked on his scent, and trembled; whether it was from his touch or the frigid air, neither had known. Nevertheless, it satisfied him as he felt her soft flesh. She wriggled beneath him, gently protested in a foreign language, and scratched at his hands which pinched at her breasts and left her sore.

Upon taking her flesh into his mouth, a noise from the alley walls drew him from his lustful act and roused his suspicions. Sharply, he glanced at the darkened windows that towered above but caught no lingering shadows or a lurking figure. And it was then that the gypsy scratched at his hands again, clawing off a golden ring in the process, and ran past him.

Tearing his gaze from the windows, he snarled and clutched at his bloodied hands before pursuing her, closely trailing after her misguided footsteps within the snow. However, he lost her in the settling darkness of the night and swallowed his anger as he returned to Pont Notre-Dame; the low murmurs of his men had led him, for they had been gathered before the empty storehouses, conversing with Captain Bonheur who held the sack cloth in his arms. And upon their master's arrival, they broke formation, spread apart, and revealed the mangled body which lay in the snow: the gypsy woman.

A wicked grin contorted Frollo's face as he barged past his soldiers and neared the motionless bohemian who neither scurried away from him nor begged for mercy. He snatched her hand, searching for what had been stolen from him, but found that her lungs were as empty as her palm. She was dead.

However, life sprouted in that eerie situation; it wriggled in the sack cloth and numbed the men's ears with a gurgled cry.


	4. A Continuation of Catherine Wheel

"You fools," said Frollo, spying the gypsy's blood that slid down the length of his soldiers' blades. The warm liquid melted the snow and stained the silent night, save for the persistent wailing of the infant who wriggled in the captain's arms.

"Your Honor," one soldier spoke, "the woman was belligerent—robbed the lieutenant of his blade and dared strike us. Our actions were reasonable." The other men, who stood by the babbling soldier, nodded their heads in agreement, flashes of light coming from their silver helms, which shined under the full moon, illuminating their bloody deeds. However, preoccupied as he was with the sniveling child, Bonheur refrained from commenting on the death of the gypsy woman.

He held no smile but allowed for the child to reach up and brush it's little pink fingers through his beard. From afar, the two looked serene. They appeared to be like father and son, a man, who stood in the ranks of war, holding his child; though it was anything but.

Frollo cast down the gypsy's hand in which he had searched for his stolen jewel and rose to his feet. Averting his eyes from her mangled body, he isolated the babbling solider with an outstretched finger.

"You—discard of them, and let me not spy a single drop of blood when you've finished."

The solider attempted to protest, but instead he withdrew his useless words and shrank back. And as he left the circle of men with the woman's body slung over his shoulder, Frollo glanced at Bonheur, who had yet to lift his eyes from the fussing child.

"Take it to the Cathedral," he drawled as he cleaned his dagger.

"Your Honor?"

"Leave it upon the steps," he continued, leaving no room for Bonheur, whose eyes were widening with disbelief, to object, "And make haste, captain. You're to carry out an execution." He held the dagger before his eyes, tilted the shinning blade under the light of the moon, and inwardly sneered at his own blood which oozed from the scratches upon his hands and stained the hilt of the weapon.

"It is but a child," Bonheur exclaimed, clutching the infant and drawing it into his chest. "I cannot leave it."

The judge grimaced, "Very well, then you will join it." It was at his words that Bonheur silenced his thoughts and put his conscience to rest. He maneuvered the child in his arms in such a fashion that it's face, which was shadowed by the overlapping fabric of the sack cloth, was turned away from him. He hadn't wanted to see it—hadn't wanted the innocence to strike him and cast him into shame.

"Forgive me," he said, "orders will be met." Removing his eyes from the infant, he sauntered towards his horse, mounted, and disappeared into the night.

* * *

Nadya's wrists were sore and bruised, however, upon the presence of the lieutenant, she thrashed about. The chains which bound her clattered against the stone wall she had been joined with, and she sobbed, for the foreboding sense that enraptured her was overwhelming; and the lieutenant's smirk offered no remorse for her upcoming execution.

She lifted her eyes to the wall across her and sighed. The lanky gypsy man, whom she had always lifted her eyes to in need of consoling during the waves of her fears that washed over her, was gone. It had been due to his outspoken ways that his tongue was cut out, and in time his strength left him, and he passed.

"Gypsies," the lieutenant started, "They're good for nothing—time wasters." He reached for his sword and dared strike her. She wailed, cast down her eyes and refused to face her sentence, and allowed herself one last thought: her two boys.

"Halt!" cried Bonheur with an upraised hand. He lingered in the doorway and grimaced at his soldier who hadn't been too keen upon taking orders.

"She's to be put to death," said the lieutenant, his deep and odd voice growing dark as he gestured towards Nadya with his sword (somewhat hoping that his blade would 'accidentally' slice through her).

"They are not your orders to carry out," Bonheur stressed as he entered and drew his own sword. The lieutenant snickered and slowly sheathed his sword before withdrawing from Nadya. She was still lost in the memory of her two boys, Pali and Nicu, that she hadn't realized Bonheur's interference.

"Where is papa?" Pali, her eldest, would ask. His brown eyes would lock upon her and silently search her anxious face for an answer, but no answer was ever given. And though she knew the right words to say, which would satisfy Pali's curiosity, she refrained from telling the horrid story.

"He's with his other family," she'd say instead, running her fingers through Pali's dark hair as a means of flattening down the few stray strands that refused to submit. But it was impossible. His messy hair would always remain so; a few strands would fall before his eyes, and a cheeky grin would overtake his small face.

"Pali," Nadya whispered.

"Silence!" cried the lieutenant, whipping his head and narrowing his eyes upon her. However, at Bonheur's raised hand the soldier scoffed and withdrew before crossing to the door. And as he reached the doorway, he felt compelled to turn back; and he did. It was the soft murmuring voice of the captain that forced his cheek to turn, the odd words he whispered to Nadya, as if consoling her from her nearing execution.

But the lieutenant, oddly intrigued and disgusted by his captain's demeanor, left the cell and shut the door behind him without cutting through their quiet conversation. And as he made his way down the dark corridors of the dungeons, returning to his men, he reflected upon Bonheur's actions with one word upon his lips: renegade.

And he'd report his concerns to Judge Frollo.

"Are you denouncing your captain?" asked the judge, glaring at the lieutenant who neither locked his eyes with his master nor faltered under the weight of his heavy voice. "Making false pretences is punishable by death. I would assume that you do not wish to join the gypsy girl."

"With all due respect, Your Honor," the lieutenant started, "I'd appreciate it if I was not compared to the dogs of our world."

Frollo chuckled, thoughtfully rubbed at his hands and pondered the whereabouts of his missing ring before rising from his chair. "Need I remind you that those dogs made a fool out of you last night?" Smirking, he turned to face his soldier and relished the disdain that encompassed his face at the memory of the gypsy mother who had robbed him of his sword.

"Forgive me, Your Honor," said the lieutenant, realizing that his statements against Bonheur were trivial. Perhaps it had been due to his pressing will to become captain himself which swayed the judge to believe that he was merely seething with envy; or perhaps the old man's mind hadn't been in the right state to deal with such accusations. After all, still rubbing at his naked finger which was without its ring, he hadn't forgotten his intimate encounter with the gypsy woman nor her thievery. And it was then upon that thought that he ventured into the dungeons below. He'd oversee Nadya's execution, punish her for her misleading words, yet credit her for the success of discarding of the infiltrating gypsies that had dared cross the Seine that night.

At his presence within her cell, her eyes widened; whether it was shock or fear, no one knew (for the two emotions have an uncanny resemblance.)

"I suppose you think you've wasted my time," Frollo began as he approached her. "Well, no matter. I can assure you that nothing was wasted, save for the heathen souls."

He grinned at his conclusion, recalling the gypsy man who had led the makeshift raft along the Seine and the irate husband who dared to draw his dagger. Yet, at the thought of the gypsy mother, her squirming body beneath him as he tasted her flesh and devoured her yelps, a twinge of regret struck him, for he hadn't intended for her to die, at least, not before his dark intentions had been fulfilled, nor by his soldiers' blades. And it was infuriating.

However, more infuriating than Nadya's lying lips was the fact that they so much resembled that of the thief he had yet to capture, the one they called La Esmeralda.

"Captain Bonheur," he called, directing his eyes to the silent solider, "Execute her."

"Your Honor," Bonheur started, "if I may—"

"You may not," Frollo interrupted with raised eyebrows. Though he hadn't digested a single word that the lieutenant spoke against Bonheur, he was certainly disgusted by his recent objections to his orders.

"But perhaps another method could—"

"Another method?"

Bonheur pursed his lips into a thin line until they were nearly hidden within his gruff beard before asserting his stance, "She has had enough time to think about her actions—the night was rather long. Surely I can get the truth from her." He held his head high, pressed his shoulders back, and stood tall before Nadya who inwardly whimpered at his negotiation.

"Captain," Frollo began, steepling his hands and reflecting upon Bonheur's lack of obedience which had ignited at the bonfire sometime ago, "If I assumed that your defiance was inspired by this gypsy girl I'd order for your execution as well."

"Nay, Your Honor," the captain replied, furiously shaking his head in disagreement. "I only wish to serve you and to prove a point." Removing his right gauntlet and sharply turning to Nadya, who looked upon both men in horror, he struck her cheek, drawing a loud yelp from her.

"With the right method, of course," he continued with a heinous grin, "After all, you did say gypsies are anxious things, coming willingly lest they be broken upon the wheel. Now, wouldn't that tactic also evoke the truth?"

The judge studied him, took note of his words, and ultimately nodded in agreement. However, he still held onto his authority and issued his order, "You've till dawn, captain."

Nadya stifled a moan of despair, summoning a sharp glance from Frollo. Snickering, he raised his hand to strike her but halted at the voice from the door.

"Your Honor," called a soldier. He was a rather odd looking man-had a mess of white hair and blue eyes which seemed to sit on two opposite ends of his face rather than normal. And he held a smile that stretched much too far up the corners of his cheeks as if mockery was implied, however, more suspicious than his sardonic smile was that of the letter he held in his outstretched hand. But it was the intricate writing which graced the parchment that ultimately struck the judge as odd: Archdeacon Augustan Charbonneau.

Upon reading it, he scowled. He folded it in half, thrust it back to the soldier, and snickered, "I haven't the time to meet his request."

"It is urgent," the soldier replied, refusing to retrieve the letter that met with his breast plate. "Charbonneau will have it no other way."

"Your Honor, all orders will be met," Bonheur added as if putting the old man's mind at ease, though it was impractical.

"Very well," Frollo concluded before leaving Bonheur to his tactics and joining the odd soldier at his side. Still refusing to reclaim the letter, he offered a strange grin to Bonheur and Nadya as he left and began to amuse Frollo with his odd and peculiar conversation. However, unbeknownst to the judge, what lay within Notre-Dame's walls was far more odd and peculiar than the soldier.

"I'm elated that you're here," Charbonneau said upon Frollo's entrance. And it was unusual to the judge how the archdeacon had processed that he had walked through Notre-Dame's doors, but what he hadn't known was that the archdeacon had his own voices ringing in his head; one of that being the scream of a gypsy mother who had failed to protect her family the prior night.

"I've no concern to linger about any longer than I have to. As you know, time is short, and I've pressing matters to attend to."

"Naturally," replied Charbonneau as he busied himself tending to the floor candelabras that were scattered about. He was an older man whose graying hair withered atop his balding head and whose swollen feet caused a slight limp in his walk. "However, do know that I've called you here due to your own actions." He spoke with a certain disdain, for he and the judge seldom saw eye to eye, regardless of the fast that both men were of similar age. They bickered over biblical verses and disagreed upon justice and the upholding of the law. And though he was a man of God, serving the Notre-Dame, that temple of God, his human imperfections were impossible to suppress.

"My men did not harm the child," said Frollo, recalling the details of the letter he still clutched in his hand. Charbonneau nearly chuckled at his response, for he found it humorous that the judge hadn't seen his own error.

"This is not a matter of the child's physical wellbeing," the priest started, "You eliminated his caregivers, and as consequence you will take responsibility for him lest God turn his back on you." Glancing back at the judge, he narrowed his eyes upon him and waited for a retort, but it never came. Instead, Frollo held his tongue long enough for an ingenious thought to bloom within his mind.

"Very well," he concluded, taking responsibility over the infant and imagining the wailing child put away in the dungeons of the Palais. "It seems that this matter has been resolved." Turning away from the flabbergasted priest, Frollo started for the door with the idea that his men, specifically Bonheur, would fetch the child from the cathedral at a more reasonable hour before tossing it in the cells.

"Will you not see him?" asked Charbonneau, his voice echoing about and bringing the judge to a halt. He snickered at the priest's invitation, found it an irksome task to gaze upon the child, but obliged nevertheless and followed the priest to a back room.

Two maidens, who had been watching over the child, instantly bowed their heads in respect at the presence of the two men and quickly scurried out of the room, leaving the infant to fuss. Charbonneau extended his arm and gestured for Frollo to draw near, to look upon the being that would attach itself to his life.

A large wart overwhelmed the child's left eye, which was of different color than his right, and his hair was dry like that of hay. But more interesting than his facial deformations, was his small body, tossing and turning upon the makeshift desk. It was no older than three years old, was odd and unusual; it was malformed.

"The child is a curse," said Frollo as he withdrew. He hadn't been aware of his malformations, hadn't questioned the being Bonheur had held in his arms the prior night, and he wondered if the child had always been so deformed.

"Nay," said Charbonneau, slightly dismayed at the judge's words. "All children are miracles from God."

But the being before the judge was no miracle, at least not in his eyes. In fact, a great tremor ruptured his body, for he dared to believe that God had sent such a curse to him, punishing him for his failure to vanquish the Cour de Miracles and the heathen gypsies who dwelled within it. However, far deeper in the depths of his mind lingered a sole thought that he himself was too terrified to admit, too terrified to voice aloud: perhaps God had sent such a curse to punish him for his need to devour the corrupt lines of _The Minister._

"Minister Frollo?" questioned Charbonneau, waking the judge from his thoughts.

"Keep the child here," answered Frollo as he absentmindedly gazed at the infant who had exhausted himself from fussing. "Put him to work in your church and rely on my teachings to aid him as he grows."

"I've nothing here for him."

"He has no place in the Palais."

Clutching the letter he still held in his hands, he offered it back to the priest as he withdrew from the child. And the priest, studying Frollo's hands which were covered in small, bloodied scrapes and scratches, shed light upon their existence,

"Last night's endeavors must have been troublesome."

"Heathens," replied Frollo, inwardly cringing at the memory of the gypsy mother scratching at him in a means of escaping, "they're impossible things." Convinced that his life and his very soul had been cursed by God, the judge left Notre-Dame.

As he returned to the Palais, he, along with a few soldiers who had been patrolling the nearby streets, set out to vanquish what he deemed problematical: a small booklet that twinkled in the window of a peasant owned shop. It mocked him through the glass and laughed at him as he had entered the shop. And though he had destroyed many, new installments were constantly issued, causing the small booklet to grow thicker with each additional chapter. However, surely, he believed, if he were to eliminate just one more booklet, God would favor him yet again.

"M'lord," said the bookkeeper, a Parisian girl whose hazel eyes had lost their glimmer at the sight of the judge, "I've no knowledge of that book. I'd never sell such prose." In her hands, she clutched a red booklet, golden words shining under the light of a nearby candle: _The Minister._

She had come from a poor provincial town, left home in search of adventure (for she had been enamored with the adventures she had read of in tall tales and fables) after the passing of her father who had left her with a small sack of money after auctioning his fine inventions. And so, naturally, when the judge questioned her about the foul prose, she shook her head and denounced ever owning it.

Frollo grimaced, glowered at her down the length of his nose, and refused to accept her statement. "The possession of illicit goods is no trivial matter."

He had warned the bookkeeper of the vile and vicious nature of the booklet and threatened to arrest her for its existence within her shop, but her soft voice consumed his anger; either that or his deviant desire to read the newly published booklet overwhelmed him.

"You have my word, m'lord," she began, "I've not read such a story. Although, I once read a vile and vicious tale concerning an ogre and a beanstalk and a—"

"Never you mind," he snapped, snatching the booklet from her hands. "Let me not catch such filth in this shop again," he added as he left, gesturing for his fellow guards to follow. Each of them bowed before the young bookkeeper; she was a rather pretty girl. But her features were overlooked by Frollo, for his eyes were fixed upon the booklet in his hands. And when the evening bells of Notre-Dame chimed, he retired to his quarters and delved into his misery.

In such silent hours the voices of his father plagued his mind, for due to the troublesome gypsy who dwelled in the dungeons below, Nadya, the Cour de Miracles was not found; and the voice of the King, his threatening words nearly wrapping Frollo's limbs around the spokes of the Catherine Wheel, lingered as well. And though the judge usually immersed himself in the comforting verses of the Holy book when bothered by the plagues of the world in which he deemed cruel and wicked, he resorted to another book; one that had ensnared him and tempted him to open its cover.

And he did.

Shaking fingers hurriedly flipped through the pages and anxious eyes devoured each and every word as his breath spilled into the book from his muttering lips which silently mouthed the lines that lured him in:

* * *

The Minister

_Pg 25: A Moth into a Butterfly_

The moon would've marked that night as wretched and sobbed at the torturous screams of people that filled it's star speckled sky, however the Minister, a smirk plastered across his aged face, termed the night: _le jour de la célébration._ (The day of celebration).

And she, the gypsy mother whose nursing infant was ripped from her grasp, attempted to evade the Minister with frost bitten feet. But his perseverance was stronger.

She trembled in the embrace of winter and found herself trapped; in this sense, she was like a shivering child. She hadn't wanted to face him, hadn't wanted to surrender to his mercilessness, for his cruel deeds were ever visible: the lifeless body of her husband, the man whose name she had taken years ago, laid sprawled upon the ground. But she surrendered nevertheless and allowed her eyes to fall upon the Minister's stark features.

In an attempt to shield her dismal eyes from his wicked grin by cowering behind her bloodied hands, hands that had once caressed a wailing babe along the Seine river in her escape from poverty, a blade came down upon her. Although the weapon was dull, it carved through the dark fabric of her garment and revealed the body that had only been seen and touched by the lifeless man upon the ground.

"A moth into a butterfly," murmured the Minister, for the woman who was once a meager mother now stood before him, discarded of her clothes and exposing her shame, as a goddess; she was beautiful. And though the rosary, which was tightly wrung about his frail wrist, weighted him down to the earth, weighted him down to his vows to celibacy, thoughts of conquering her in the midst of the night numbed him. For the night was his, and for his success (slaughtering those whom he deemed vile) he'd take his reward: _le jour de la célébration._

Naked, the cold wind kissed her bare flesh, and so did he. Her protests were foreign and her strength was lacking. Nevertheless, he consumed her dry yelps; and he ravished the woman until the faint callings of his soldiers in the distant night pulled him away from her, his name falling from their lips and ringing in her ears, "Minister Frollo."

* * *

His heart trembled at the sight of his own name inked in such a foul prose, and his eyes, anxious and determined as they were to unsee what had been seen, furiously traced over the last line again and again: his name falling from their lips and ringing in her ears, "Minister Frollo." It choked him, nearly left him suffocating to the point that all sanity had been drained. He hadn't the sound mind to ponder who had witnessed his deeds that night, hadn't the intellect to ponder the identity of the author who recorded his actions, for nothing was of more importance than the slandering of his name.

His deeds had been inked, his carnal desires unleashed and exposed to the hungry eyes of the sexually, deviant souls that dared read such a book. And though he had tried to undermine the fact that his all-seeing God assuredly witnessed his actions against the gypsy mother, he now reveled in fear at the fact that all of Paris and the King himself would also witness his acts in the form of words, those words, the words of _The Minister._


	5. The Boy & The Temptress

_10 years later_

A lonesome boy lingered in the bell tower. He yearned to be free, to seep through the crevices of the stone walls and escape into the city below, but his duty laid within the golden bells, which called to the Parisians during the day and during the night, beckoned them to flock to the holy church and take heed of the teachings that were given.

In the early hours of the morning he'd take the tools he had been gifted with and carve the intricate faces and bodies he spied from his tower; and many lonely evenings, when the sun bids good-bye to the world, he'd climb atop the balustrade and study the mothers who called her children in for supper, the fathers who trudged home from work, the soldiers who patrolled the streets, and the gypsies who scampered about and more than often evaded them.

But in between the hours of the day, he'd put away his tools and turn a blind eye, for Judge Frollo, the old man who had taught him how to walk, speak, and read, would visit him; and he called him master. Frollo's presence was never certain and his comings and goings were sporadic, yet the boy knew when he was near. He'd listen for the loud footsteps ascending the crooked, wooden stairs and he'd slap a large hand over his pig-like snout at the smell of him: smoke and wine. And when the man was close enough that his towering shadow overwhelmed the boy, words were spoken,

"You haven't forgotten me today, Master."

"I cannot forget what I have been burdened with," said Frollo, "Had your mother been a wiser woman, she would have shielded you from the world rather than crossing my borders and daring to expose you—never think fondly of her, dear boy."

"Perhaps my mother hadn't meant to expose my faults," the boy said. He exalted her, the mother he never knew, and often dreamt of her warm hold and soft voice lulling him to sleep. At least, that was what he had seen when spying upon the mothers of Paris from his tower. So, naturally, he assumed his mother was the same. But the judge disagreed.

"A heathen mother never feels. You are but a boy, Quasimodo; you simply cannot understand the nature of those who have strayed away from God."

And he was but a boy, nearing his fifteenth year and barely able to control the cracking of his voice. In this way he was awkward and odd, and it did little to help his natural oddness: his large hunchback, his discolored eyes (one being blue and the other being green), and his misshapen face.

"Yes, Master," Quasimodo agreed, tearing away from the makeshift table, which displayed his wooden carvings, and facing the old man. Seated at yet another table, Frollo gestured for the boy to join him.

"Have you been reading as I instructed you?"

Quasimodo sighed and cast down his eyes, for he hadn't wanted to look at the tall stack of books lying next to him, the ones he had tried to carry with him atop the balustrade where he would peer down at the Parisians below. And sometimes when he wasn't careful a couple of the leather bound books would topple off and fall into a passing wagon or hit the ground with a loud thud. Either way, Quasimodo was not fond of the books and deemed them cumbersome and overwhelming.

"Nay," he said, "I haven't read but one."

"Ahh, I see," Frollo started with a grimace. "You think reading is a trivial matter, seek to waste my time with your nonsense. Perhaps I should discontinue your lessons and leave you to the company of the stonework."

"Nay!" cried the boy, for though he cherished the stone gargoyles that never once uttered a word to him, he couldn't imagine his life without the presence of his master, the only soul who dared speak to him save for Archdeacon Charbonneau. And even he, that holy man of God, frowned at the boy.

"You do not take heed of my words, therefore I've no other choice," said Frollo as he rose from the table and glided towards the wooden stairs. He had never fancied the boy, for he had been a troublesome child and was often overheard talking to the gargoyles. He'd ask curious questions and break nearly everything he laid his large hands upon, save for the blocks of wood the Archdeacon had gifted him with in hopes that he'd create something rather than demolish it.

"Books don't speak to me," Quasimodo said, pleading with his master not to leave him. "They do not speak to me as _my friends_ do." He gestured towards the motionless gargoyles, those grotesque works of stone. "Books don't speak to me as they speak to you, Master."

Frollo chuckled as he descended, for Quasimodo's lack of knowledge was amusing. "Dear boy," he began, gazing up at him from below, "books and stone alike are not speaking objects. And when I return, you'll have read every book lest you ring the bells forever."

He left, slipped out of the heavy door, and made his way down the spiral staircase that led to the main hall of the cathedral. The judge had always been confident in his teachings and expected the boy to abide. But as he glided down the stairs his own words deterred him, for books were indeed speaking objects, or rather, that book was a speaking object: _The Minister._

It had been fifteen years since Frollo had last dared himself to read the lust-filled prose, yet it still stirred his once holy thoughts and twisted them into dark desires of touching the flesh of sin and being touched by the flesh of sin. And though his sanity had dared to flee him at the sight of his own name written within the prose, the King's irate dismissal was what had effectively chased his sanity off the cliff.

"Captain, you will take a flame to that peasant shop and not return until it is but ash," Frollo had said upon calling Bonheur into his private quarters where just moments ago he had suffered in the trembling thoughts of which individual inked his name into the filthy booklet.

"Your Honor, the bookkeeper girl claimed she had no knowledge of the literature," Bonheur had said, "Burning her shop will only turn the Parisians against us."

"Then let them mourn!" Frollo snapped, throwing the red booklet to the ground. "You will take action upon my orders or else be thrown into the fire. And I assure you, captain, I've no issue with your execution." Glaring at his soldier, he pierced Bonheur's calm demeanor and sighed in frustration when he left to fulfill demands, calling for his men and rounding them off into the city with torches and determination.

Fire had consumed Paris that night, and an overwhelming heat wrapped around the small, inner island, threatening to melt the very stonework saints that decorated Notre-Dame. And by morning, the young girl's bookshop was purged along with others whether if they held copies of _The Minister_ or not. Dark patches of ash smothered the ground and faint weeping from former shop owners echoed off the surrounding buildings that had managed to survive the turmoil. But Judge Frollo, still shaken by the sensual adventures within _The Minister_ , which held his name, greeted the morning with a snicker, for the King had issued for his immediate presence at the Royal Château d'Amboise.

However, upon leaving the Palais, Frollo had been met with the odd, white haired solider who had delivered Charbonneau's letter to him the day before, the one with the blue eyes that seemed too far apart and the grin that stretched too far up his face.

"Good morning, Your Honor," he said. He stood by a golden coach outside the Palais de Justice, and the judge, who was bothered by his presence, frowned and continued to his own coach which lay adjacent from the soldier's.

"I've no interest in your business," said Frollo, but before he could reach his coach the soldier blocked his path with his arm.

"Your Majesty does not wish to see you," he said. "He deems you unfit—wonders why his city is smothered by a cloud of grey."

The judge scoffed, "Then he shall tell me so when I arrive. Now, step aside."

"Impossible," said the soldier, drawing back his shoulders and twisting his lips as if something foul had struck his nose. "Your presence is no longer welcome nor required. Your duty remains here until further word from the King."

"I do not take orders from a babbling fool."

The soldier grinned, that familiar mocking grin, "Not abiding by the King's trusty servant only emphasizes true foolishness. And with all due respect, Your Honor, I'd be relieved that the King has not called for me to be broken upon the wheel for being involved in such a scandal as The Minister." A throaty laugh emerged from him and his eyes seemed to grow further apart as he continued, "Although, I must say that I do believe the King is faulty for letting you live."

The judge held his tongue and did not continue with his meeting with the King upon the soldier's orders, and though the task had been taken away from him in that moment he still sought out the individual who was responsible for the mesmerizing lines of _The Minister_ , one who dwelled within the safe world the gypsies, the Cour de Miracles.

But fifteen years offered him no resolution and the booklet itself had yet to see another printing press where its vile words had once been born upon; it had become stagnant. And though many had believed that the author either died or had refrained from inking another word in fear of the judge's wrath, he never stopped searching despite the King's dismissal.

Upon entering the main hall of the cathedral, Frollo's memories halted at the sight of a young gypsy girl poking about. Curious as any child would be, she peered around the stone pillars; and she walked softly as if not to pierce the silence that resonated within the holy building. However, Frollo's mind had been pierced, for the girl was all too familiar, resembled that of the one the gypsies called La Esmeralda. He approached her, snatched her by the arm, and twirled her body around so as to face the girl who hadn't shivered nor wept in the face of death.

She yelped under his grip and pressed her small hands against his chest in a vain attempt to escape. But he, curious to know her identity, held her firmly and struggled to spy her features as she thrashed about, dark hair shielding her face.

"Be still," he ordered, and she, afraid of his power and the dark tales which were told about him amongst her people, obeyed. She became as motionless as the great saints of Notre-Dame, those domineering statues that latched themselves to the cathedral and glowered down at the Parisians, and she mumbled incoherent words.

"Look at me when you speak," he said, shaking her by the arm as if to make sure she hadn't been made of stone. Repeating her lines, she lifted her dismal eyes to him. He said not a word, and in his numbing fascination his hold upon her loosened.

Alas, it was not her.

She furrowed her brows at his odd silence but didn't linger to question him. As she scurried off, he remained still and his eyes never left the space which she had possessed mere moments ago, for he was mortified at his own logic: that the young gypsy girl could possibly be Esmeralda. After all, he knew better than anyone that Esmeralda was but a child when he first spied her at the heathen bonfire. And ten years was no short amount of time.

* * *

The dungeons were desolate, save for the few faint echoes of marching boots and crude snickers. Nevertheless, the judge sauntered down the dark corridors, rubbing at his aching head and cursing the thoughts he had of the frightened gypsy girl he encountered in the cathedral. She was such a fine reminder of Esmeralda, the one he deemed a criminal among criminals, and somehow it bothered him.

"I hadn't expected you, Your Honor," said the lieutenant as he exited a cellar, shutting the door behind him, eliminating the terrified scream which called from within.

"Yes, I suppose my visit with the boy was rather short. He's a troublesome lad."

The soldier nodded in agreement though he had never had the opportunity to meet the bell ringer, Quasimodo. And Frollo, who wasn't interested in discussing the hunchback any further, peered down one of the crooked corridors and spied a cluster of his men. Many of them were loafing about. Their mouths were full with cheese and bread, their speech was muffled, and some, who had a bit of bread in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other, stumbled about and nearly fell over their own feet.

The judge grimaced and would have split the drunken party with an outstretched finger and a loud command if the lieutenant's words had not distracted him,

"Did Bonheur accompany you to the Notre-Dame?"

"Nay," replied Frollo, tearing his eyes off his belligerent men. "He was ordered to remain here."

"He hasn't been seen since last night's interrogation," said the lieutenant, scratching at his head in bewilderment as he recalled speaking with Bonheur during the event.

"And what of the dead?" asked Frollo, for the interrogation had ended in blood. "Were they disposed of?"

"Yes, I believe so. Captain said all orders had been met."

The lieutenant became weary and Frollo grew displeased and shuffled down into the lower level of the dungeons where Nadya's cell once laid. Upon Bonheur's word, she had been slaughtered along with the rest of the sorrow-filled souls that had been locked away in her cell after she refused to surrender the location of the Cour de Miracles fifteen years ago.

"Your Honor, what are you doing down here?" asked the concerned lieutenant from behind, for he had followed the frustrated judge. "These cells have been empty for nearly a decade."

Frollo remained silent for quite some time and loomed over Nadya's old cell door before straightening himself and collecting his thoughts. "Dig the ditches. Gather every soldier and put them to work."

"The ditches?" asked the lieutenant, "What good will come from that? They're nearly ten feet deep. It will take days before we reach the bodies."

"If," Frollo drawled, "If they are bodies." He turned to his soldier, whose face now transformed from confusion into something dark, and carried on, "And should my orders be met, I promise a handsome reward."

The soldier grinned, lowered his visor, and made off into the shadows of the dungeons with the intent of gathering every man available; one word lingering upon his lips, renegade.

"Frollo's orders: post everyman at the trenches and empty them," said the lieutenant as he stood tall above the cluster of men who had been moseying about the Palais. Some snickered at his remarks and others asked to speak with Bonheur, but the lieutenant simply answered with a smirk, "I am the captain now."

Many hard pressed hours were spent digging the muddy tomb that served as the final resting place for thieves and gypsies alike. Their stiff bodies were tossed into the ditches after execution and packed with mud, buried beneath the city and buried at the back of Judge Frollo's mind. However, before the evening sun bid good-bye, the trenches had been opened.

Small clusters of panting soldiers covered with mud stood above the dreary hole before them. Some fell to their knees and others hunched over their shovels and removed their helms in order to inhale every much needed breath. But the small number of brave souls that dared to peer within the ditches below nearly lost their sanity and brought their sore, calloused hands to their mouths in repulsion.

Sacks upon sacks filled the tomb below and an indistinct stench filled the men's nostrils. Had the lieutenant not have ordered them to check the sacks, they would have all fled and retired for the day, but orders were orders and the lieutenant would make sure that every task was met.

"Leave not one body unchecked," he griped, glaring down at them as they slowly maneuvered about the sacks and drew their swords. For a long moment only silence was heard until one brave soldier pierced a bag with his blade and sliced it open, revealing a horrendous sight.

"Mon Dieu!" he cried, falling backward atop the soldier who stood behind him. The other men craned their necks to see the ghastly sight and nearly shivered in their armor before drawing their own blades and slicing through the sacks before them. And the lieutenant, who now deemed himself captain, withdrew from the trenches as the eerie sound of sand poured out from the sacks below and piled about the soldier's feet.

"Renegade," he said, "The man is a renegade."

No one dared approach Judge Frollo nor knock upon his door and alert him of the discovery. However, one brave man, the exact same man who had been the first to draw his sword upon the sand filled sacks, volunteered. Running his fingers through his long, bushy mustache, he entered Frollo's private quarters and nearly scrambled back out when the judge's voice shook the very foundation of the Palais de Justice.

"Find him," Frollo ordered upon exiting his quarters and running into a group of soldiers huddled outside his door. "I want him alive. And should the fool return, bring him to me."

By the time night had fallen, the soldiers had rummaged through Paris without any sign of the man they once called captain and time was growing thin. But the lieutenant, more aggressive than anyone else, yearned to find the faulty captain and put him down with his own blade. And so, naturally, when the midnight hour struck and Quasimodo retired from the work of ringing the Notre-Dame bells, the lieutenant moved his post outside the Palais and waited in the shadows for Bonheur to return.

The other men, exhausted from the day, gleefully retired for the night and tore off their heavy armor, but Frollo, brooding in his private quarters and insistently glancing towards the balcony, waited for something, anything. And then it came: a scream.

Every red-rimmed eye shot open and sluggish bodies rose from comforting beds. Armor was equipped, swords were drawn, and horses were mounted; treason was no trivial matter. Frollo joined his men in their rush to the bloodcurdling scream and found a large mangled body tossed upon the threshold of the Palais, the lieutenant. A sword had been driven through him, his own sword.

A few soldiers bowed their heads in respect for the dead while others lifted their eyes to the black abyss that lay before them, Paris at night. A loud snicker echoed about and stirred their suspicions, and at the sound of misguided footsteps trailing off into the city, Frollo drew the reins to his horse and pursued the fiend with his men close behind. Bloodied and scattered footsteps guided the judge and his men through the night, but soon the trail ended at a pool of blood and hoof prints emerged from it. Their attacker was no fool, wounded, but not a fool.

Though tired and sleep deprived, the soldiers managed to press forward behind their master, this loud horde of howling men, rushing down the streets of Paris. Their presence broke the silence of the night and woke fussing babes and frustrated peasants. A few nosey children peered out of their windows, eyed the group of soldiers, and mimicked the insults they shouted after the fiend that had slaughtered their lieutenant. The children grabbed their wooden swords and makeshift shields (which happened to be their mother's washing basin) and took to the streets, jousting with one another and playing guard.

But one child, concealing himself within the shadows of Paris's tall shops and bakeries, snatched a fist-sized rock and hurled it at the horde of soldiers. It flew across the streets, invisible in the darkness of the night, and struck a man. He cried out, lost control of his horse, and hid his face behind his hands which were quickly filling with the blood that oozed from the gash upon his nose.

The other soldiers paid no attention to their fallen man but instead followed after Frollo who was so blinded by rage that he too had not seen the invisible stone soaring his way. It struck him on the arm, and though its force was not strong enough to break his skin, a small bruise developed underneath his black garment. And before he could alert his men of the treachery, a rain of stone fell upon them. Pebbles were launched at their horses, which halted and whinnied in fright, and small rocks were thrown at their bodies, denting their armor and clanking against their helms.

"After him!" one man cried, drawing his sword and aiming it at a hard-faced gypsy boy who hadn't done well with concealing his body in the shadows. The child bared his teeth and hurled the last stone he had in his tiny hands before scurrying off into the night with nearly half of Frollo's soldiers trailing behind him.

"Fools!" cried the judge, "Leave them be—they're no concern of mine!" But his orders were unheard, for his voice did little to penetrate the screaming insults that spewed from his soldier's lips. And when he glanced back over his shoulder as a means of addressing their silence, he found that he was alone and that they had all gone, separated from him to chase the gypsy children.

He snarled, concentrated on the trail of hoof prints before him, and urged his panting steed faster until he caught up to the shadow of the fiend whom he pursued, Captain Bonheur. His leg had been wounded; drops of blood fell from it and splattered upon the streets. But when he took notice of Frollo's growing presence, he sharply steered his horse to the right before leaping off and crashing into the ground. And the judge, late to react, lost sight of Bonheur and took to his own feet to find the man he once called captain.

It wasn't long until he found Bonheur's bloodied footprints leading him onward, and with his stark determination to slay him, he soon advanced upon his shadow and followed it into a crooked shack, a brothel.

Drunkards and the homeless were gathered around wooden tables that were cluttered with wine and unconscious bodies (for they were the ones who were too weak to handle the alcohol). But Frollo, inwardly condemning the unholy place, shoved his way through the stumbling and tumbling drunken bodies until he narrowed his sights upon Bonheur who was steadily making his way through the chaos as well. He drew his sword and pursued him, forcing his way through the crowd until a familiar sight halted him. It was a reflection upon his sword, and it was so gripping that he put away his grim thoughts he had of Bonheur and turned to the compelling sight.

There she was, that beautiful bohemian, the one whose fearless soul once stood upon the brink of death with a swaying noose and mocking jeers surrounding her: La Esmeralda. Time had been kind to her, handled her with care; her face was soft and her body was ripe for the picking, for her gyrating hips and her large bosom were more than hypnotizing. The men howled at her in delight, this gorgeous temptress; they reached for her, desperate hands yearning to grace her skin which many had claimed was softer than silk. But Frollo, enamored by her as he was, overwhelming, sensual lines from _The Minister_ crashing upon his frail body like the storms at sea crashing upon a lost ship, stood still and scowled.

She pirouetted upon the stage, lost in the rhythm of the tambourine and the beating of the drums, feet gracefully tapping about; and though her right hand was bandaged, she beat her tambourine no less fiercely. And he advanced, this dark phantom lingering in the shadows of the drunkards, hidden in their stupor. However, a loud crash stole his attention and he whipped his head to the left, spying two older gypsy boys who stumbled upon the mess of tables they had knocked over. A couple of rocks spilled from their pockets and while the older one helped the other, Frollo grew irate over the fact that Bonheur escaped him and his wrath was seething.

He gripped his sword and advanced, aiming his blade at the two gypsy boys who were too concerned over each other to notice the approaching judge. He lifted the weapon and brought it down, not atop their heads but atop a table which had been thrown his way. Confused, he troubled himself with freeing his sword and then swiped the wooden obstacle out of his way, finding a fuming Esmeralda standing behind it with the two boys hiding their terrified faces in the her shadow.

Not one word was spoken between the two furious souls, but a snicker escaped Frollo's lips and a twitch of his hand sent the gypsy girl running for the back door. The two boys clung to her side and followed her every move until their feet graced the cobblestone streets of Paris.

"Pali," said Esmeralda to the eldest boy, "take your brother to the Gold Arms. They'll protect you—now, go!" The two boys scurried off and took heed of her words, and perhaps Frollo, who stumbled out of the brothel a tad too late, would have followed the boys had they not have ran in opposite directions.

"You can't have them," said Esmeralda, narrowing her gaze upon the old man.

"I don't intend to," he hissed, sending a chill throughout her body; and before he drew another breath, she ran. And he followed.

She did well to evade him and cover her tracks but it was to no avail, for the golden bracelets around her ankle betrayed her as they clanked against one another in the night. And he, nearly spent, cast down his sword to lighten his burden and pursued her across Pont Notre-Dame and into the abandoned storehouses.

"You've nowhere to run," Frollo said from behind, grinning at the obvious hole she had trapped herself within as she found herself cornered.

"Blood-thirsty, fiend," she sneered. "Were you not satisfied with their father?—figured you'd slay them as well?" Her words failed to penetrate him as a familiar sound overwhelmed him. It was faint, but present; and it started to grow. It was like nails being clawed along the wooden walls, scratching and persistent to break through.

"You killed him—fiend!" Esmeralda cried, oblivious to the war being waged inside the judge.

"Hold your tongue!" he snapped, straining to concentrate on the distracting noises around him, darting his eyes from left to right in a means of locating what he assumed was no flight of the imagination. They grew louder as if the nails from the intruders had broke through the wooden walls and invaded him, scratching against his skull and begging to be let inside. He snarled, drew his dagger, and prepared to strike.

And then the sounds were gone, vanished, as if they had never existed at all.

Esmeralda gaped, and if she could have crawled inside her own body and hid herself from the judge, she would have. But the clamor had gone and his red-rimmed eyes were focused upon her yet again.

"Fiend, you say," he said in a dull tone, twirling the blade in his hand, "Yet it was you who stood upon the gibbet, thieving gypsy."

"I'm no thief," she retorted, "You are. You robbed him of his life and dare to hold your head above ours. But he was no criminal—Pierre."

Frollo furrowed his brows, though many men had stumbled across his gibbet with tear-stained faces and trembling lips, none of their names were worth remembering. However, Esmeralda, with her shoulders drawn back in anger, breasts pushed forth and straining her garment, and skin slick with sweat, was a sight the judge could never forget. And as the vulgar lines of _The Minister_ clouded his troubled mind, he chuckled and neared her.

"My dear, the only life you should be concerned with is your own," he began, gently gliding the point of the blade along the work of her body. She became still beneath the weapon and denounced his statement with a snarl. But her red lips, twisted as they were, only roused the judge; the snickering words within hypnotized him: _. . .the cold wind kissed her bare flesh, and so did he. . .he consumed her dry yelps; and he ravished the woman. . ._

He traced the dagger along the curve of her breast, worked the blade into her fabric, and before he could expose her, he halted. The once erotic words of _The Minister_ had struck him cold as the last line unraveled in his skull: _. . . his name falling from their lips and ringing in her ears, "Minister Frollo."_

Fearful that he was being watched, fearful that all the eyes of Paris and the King himself were peering down at him in that very moment, he withdrew from the gypsy girl. But she was no less tempting, and Frollo was no fool. Registering her vulnerable state, the confusion upon her face, and her rising bosom with each and every unstable breath she took, he grinned and pointed the dagger at her.

"You will do well to obey me and follow my orders lest I deliver you to the likes of your own kind." She grimaced, but he continued, eying her bandaged hand, "And I assure you, gypsies, unruly as they are, shiver in ecstasy at the sight of blood."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now we are in that part of the story where Frollo is much older (50), Quasimodo is a young boy (14), and Esmeralda is in her twenties (25). I hope this chapter answered some questions.


	6. Extortion & Bribery: A Judge's Decree

A roar of voices, some cheerful and others angry, overwhelmed Paris one morning as a horde of soldiers marched about with sharpened swords and snickering lips. The bell ringer, curious about the commotion below, climbed atop the balustrade of Notre-Dame and strained to peer down at the sight below. Peasants and shop owners, butchers and bakers, and even a few naughty children gathered at the streets and gawked at the mass of soldiers.

Two guards garbed in dark armor led the parade with thick chains clutched in their hands. The rattling metal clanked and bounced off the cobble streets as it was dragged behind the two men, pulling a battered body along with it, a man, as if he were dead game being taken in for a feast. His arms appeared broken, flimsy and useless, as they were pulled by the shackles that bound him. It was quite odd, for the man was large, appeared to be strong and undefeated, yet was pulled along like a sack of grains. His lips were dry and his head was hung low, shadowing his eyes which never looked up towards the cathedral in hopes that God would save his damned soul.

"What a spectacle this will be," said one of the two men dragging the chained body. The other chuckled, glanced back over his shoulder at the prisoner, and grinned at the thought of what was to come.

Peasants whispered amongst each other and doting mothers covered their children's eyes with a shaky hand; others gaped in fear and some fled the scene, retiring to their homes with whimpers upon their lips. Nevertheless, Judge Frollo, standing proudly before the Palais de Justice, glowered at the bound prisoner who was shoved before his feet, tossed down upon the threshold like stolen loot being presented to a hungry thief.

"Renegade," said Frollo, neither withdrawing from nor acknowledging the small pool of blood that collected around the bound man, ex-captain Bonheur (for the impact upon the threshold was no light fall). "I'd have been wise to take heed of the lieutenant's words had I not put my trust in you. Well, no matter, your sentencing will be carried out today. May God have mercy on your traitorous soul."

With a gesture of his hand, the men took to their orders and snatched the chains, dragging Bonheur to the stocks where his punishment was to be carried out. They stripped him of his armor, of his clothes, of his rank, and fastened him into place. Guiding his weak and tired limbs into the wooden slots, they belittled him with jeers, insults, and force. It was a brutal sight, for Bonheur, who once stood proud amongst his men, was now immobile, hung his head down in what appeared to be shame in Frollo's hardened eyes, and mumbled biblical verses as he awaited the agony that was to come.

However, unbeknownst to him, the agony had already begun, but he had been too delusional to realize it. The heated pain that burned his naked back, in which he assumed was the wrath of the sun, was false and in fact was due to the multiple blows that were rained atop him by the blunt end of spears. And the warm liquid that ran down his legs, in which he assumed was his own perspiration, was that of his own blood gushing forth from the wounds his once faithful and loyal men bestowed upon him. And they, relentless and slightly unnerved by his impassiveness, hacked at him, hungry for air as they drew their wooden spears up into the air and brought them down upon him.

Frollo steadily watched with his hands clasped behind his back, fingers twisting about and rubbing at the naked spot where his ring had once laid. Although frightening screams were hurled at him from the on-looking crowd (specifically those who chose to stay and watch), he refused to calm his men, to lighten the burden which fell upon Bonheur in pain and humiliation. He held his head high and often glanced at Notre-Dame in the distance, wondering if Quasimodo was watching, wondering if he understood the wicked troubles of the world, such as renegades.

"What have you to say, captain?" mocked one of the soldiers as he brought the blunt end of his spear down upon Bonheur. "What are your orders now?" The men cackled and even spared their ex-captain a few moments to breathe as they fell forward, clutching their aching sides with gurgled laughs.

"You're no better than those gypsy scum," said another soldier, pointing a crooked finger at Bonheur. It had healed in such a fashion after a stray rock, hurled by a ragged gypsy child, had struck it upon the night of their ex-captain's escape. "You're their captain now."

A wave of laughter overtook the men as Bonheur sulked in silence; and though shame was nowhere to be found upon his sweating face, regret lingered and hopped atop his back as an additional weight to his burden. However, before Judge Frollo could lift his slender hand as a means of bringing a halt to Bonheur's suffering, a tall soldier clad in golden armor joined him by his side and penetrated the dark atmosphere with his mere presence.

"Ah, Captain Phoebus," Frollo started, acknowledging the tall, broad shouldered man, "I'm delighted that you decided to join us."

The new captain solemnly nodded and kept his lips pursed without glancing at the bloody scene adjacent from him. He had seen many deaths before, stood proud at the frontlines of many battles, and even kept peace among many ravenous crowds as criminals were sent to their eternal lives after the noose snatched their last breaths, yet, in that moment, he refrained from drawing his eyes to Bonheur; and he refrained from commenting about it too.

"I merely came here to inform you that the key to the south dungeons has gone missing," he said. But his concerns were not worrisome, for Frollo faintly chuckled and retrieved a dull key from the folds of his judicial robe.

"I assure you, I always have it," he said. "However, I'm pleased that you noticed its disappearance. You've a sharp eye."

"Yes, sir," replied Phoebus with a nod. He hadn't fully agreed, though he felt compelled to consent to the judge's every word lest he endure the same suffering as Bonheur.

And somehow Frollo was aware of his opposition.

He hadn't thought much of the new captain, Phoebus, in fact he hadn't thought of him at all until he came to him one morning with a crinkled piece of parchment in his large hands and a question upon his lips:

"If the storehouses were placed across Pont Notre-Dame, then what happened to the street that used to run through it, how do I go about finding the people who had lived there once?" His lips twisted into a frown as he looked over his scratch piece of parchment, which was supposed to serve as a map, but the stray, charcoal markings upon it only left him more perplexed than he had been before. No matter which way he turned the map, whether it was to the right or completely upside down, the shady picture still looked the same, unchanged and confusing.

"The storehouses have stood for nearly fifteen years, captain. I'd assume your thoughts about time are delirious," Frollo had said from the balcony, musing over his goblet of wine, which had gone untouched.

"I haven't been to Paris in more than a decade," Phoebus chuckled, tossing the map atop the judge's desk.

"I see." Forcing himself to take a sip of the bitter drink before turning his attention to the mangled map, which roused a sharp pain in the back of his throat, Frollo nearly choked upon his drink and snatched the parchment with a snarl, "Where did you get this?"

"Monsieur Radcliffe, sir," Phoebus replied, recalling the large, fair haired man. "He scribbled it down upon my asking of Pont Notre-Dame—said he knew the city well."

"Monsieur Radcliffe," Frollo repeated in a dull tone. "He's a respectable man, but a sinner nonetheless. Arrest him and bring him to me."

"Pardon?"

"He has an illegal item in his possession, captain—I'll not turn a blind eye." Slowly, he lowered the parchment to a silver candelabrum sitting atop his desk and grinned as it caught aflame, for, unbeknownst to Phoebus, his mangled map had been drawn on the blank side of a page from an old book, _The Minister_. "Undoubtedly, your absence in Paris has left you ignorant to the flames that now consume her. However, there is a prose which condemns this city, misleads the weak minded, and I will not tolerate it."

"A prose? I was not aware, sir." He furrowed his brows as he watched the charred, black remnants of his 'map' fall to the desk, words of a seductive prose failing to ever reach his eyes.

Upon Phoebus's movement, slightly shrinking back due to the heinous scene of Bonheur's beating, Frollo woke from his ill memory of his ignorant captain and stilled him with his last request, "Oh, and captain, do fetch the prisoner in the south dungeons. We've much to talk about."

Without glancing at the man, he gave him the key and proceeded to oversee Bonheur's sentencing, and before the first star could appear within the night sky, he called for his men to stop. Yet, it was not due to his belief that Bonheur had suffered enough, but that he deemed him to be on the verge of death, if not already dead; either that or he had grown bored and longed to spend his time elsewhere.

* * *

A gypsy boy shuffled along the dark corridors of the Palais de Justice, dragging his shackles and attempting to maintain a stiff upper lip as a strong arm pulled him along. He refused to surrender to fear and trouble his mind over the horrors he would be led to, the blade that sliced through flesh, but his heart was that of a child, young and naïve, and no amount of courage was going to suppress his overwhelming thoughts of execution.

"Hurry now," said Phoebus, pulling the boy along. He hadn't known of his crimes, assumed the boy was a thief. Nevertheless, he led him through the shadows and left him at the foot of a large door where a warm, glowing light seeped through the bottom of it and fell upon the boy's face. However, only when the door opened and the cascade of light from within consumed his frail body did his bravery diminish and his bottom lip trembled.

"I haven't the patience," said Frollo from within, gesturing for the child to enter with a slender hand. He sat at his desk, the wooden barrier that stood between him and the gypsy, pouring over an open book. "You will tell me everything I wish to know, and should I find it appropriate, I will pardon you of your crimes."

"They'll k-kill me if I s-say anything," the boy managed, stuttering over his words at the thought of his body lying atop a wooden slab with a sharpened knife pressed to his throat and an executioner's words ringing in his ears.

"Ah, so they do exist," said Frollo with a weak smile, lifting his eyes to the child. "Tell me, boy. What do they call themselves?"

The child shrank back, shuffled his feet, allowing the heavy shackles to rattle and echo about the chambers, and tightened his lips. Though he was fearful of the judge, nothing could shake his being as the oath he was bound to. And Frollo, agitated by the boy's silence, frowned and shut the book. He rose from his seat, sauntered past the child, and collected a silver candelabrum which sat atop the mantle; he was like a phantom in this sense, moving about the room without stirring a sound all while the boy sniveled and fought to fight back his tears.

Setting the candelabrum down upon his desk, Frollo turned his attention to the child, snatched his hand and pulled him forward so that the boy's little fingers were nearly roasting atop the flames. "I'll not have my time wasted."

The boy whimpered, wiggled his tiny fingers in hopes of escaping the heat that came from the flame, but Frollo's grip was impossible. He lured his small, dark hand closer and closer, until the child howled in pain, squirmed for relief, and surrendered.

"Gold Arms!" he cried, "They call themselves the Gold Arms." Tears filled the corners of his eyes and his voice cracked with his words; either way, it satisfied the judge and he released his wrist. The boy fell to the ground, drew his hand back, and attempted to soothe the stinging pain of the flame by dipping his fingers into his mouth and sucking his flesh.

"Very good," Frollo remarked, glaring down at him. Reaching for his goblet of wine, he returned to his seat, and made note of the boy's words.

"And where is it that they dwell?"

The child shivered, wondered if he should state their hideout, and upon the throbbing pain of his burnt hand, he surrendered. "They used to meet in the storehouses across Pont Notre-Dame. But after she left, they never returned there anymore."

"She was your leader?" Frollo presumed, writing away with a quill in hand.

"Nay," said the boy, dropping his head and rubbing at his wound, "she only thought she was."

"Tell me her name."

"Esmeralda."

Those four syllables rang in his ears, much louder than the toll of Notre-Dame's bells, and like a corpse rising from the dead, invigorated with life, Frollo's mind whirled with endless thoughts and he grew silent. The melting candles upon the candelabrum, losing their height and their life, were the only sound to be heard. And before Frollo calmed his inner enthusiasm, he ordered the boy to stand and dismissed him upon the coming hour: six o'clock.

Captain Phoebus had returned to the judge's door, waited patiently in the dark shadows of the corridor outside, and led the gypsy child back to his cell upon the marking of the hour. However, as he did so, dragging the child along, who had yet to remove his blistered fingers from his mouth, he felt a presence overwhelm him. A figure, barely visible in the darkness, came his way. Soft footsteps could be heard and as the figure advanced and he caught sight of its black cloak, which swayed to and fro, as it sauntered past him.

The boy was unfazed by the being and dared not to glance up at it as it walked by. But Phoebus was disturbed. He came to a halt and glanced back over his shoulder only to find the odd being waiting before the judge's door in silence, glaring his way. And while he couldn't spy the figure's eyes, he felt them pierce his lungs, leaving him breathless.

Yet, strange as it was, he did not address the figure, for Frollo had opened the door, allowed the shadow to enter, and nodded his head in his direction, assuring him that all was at peace.

But it wasn't.

"I expected you sooner. You do know that I detest your defiance, subtle as it may seem," Frollo began, addressing the cloaked individual who moved to the center of the room as if practicing familiar lines. "And let my captain never spy you lingering outside my chambers again."

No words were spoken in response and silence ensued until the heavy cloak fell from the shoulders of its master and a dark, beautiful form was exposed. The flickering light of the candles danced upon her nakedness, left stark shadows upon hidden curvatures, and allowed a satisfied sigh to roll from the judge's lips as he took a seat upon a stray chair and awaited the proposal he had indulged in one too many times.

It had been expected, required, and utmost necessary on his part. He'd slouch back in his chair with steepled fingers, and glare at the beauty before him like a mad, panting animal. And when his eyes would adjust to the sight before him, which had once only existed in the form of words, a deadly prose which had led him down crooked paths, he'd utter his order,

"Perform."

Dark arms would rise above a head full of black curls, and hips, which were decorated in chains of gold, would sway from left to right, rehearsing sultry movements that had been performed many times in the old brothels and forgotten streets of Paris. But none of such performances were ever presented before one pair of eyes, and somehow it became even more seductive than having the eyes of thousands falling upon the erotic display.

Frollo was pleased with his bargain, bringing to life the very words that sought to destroy him: _The Minister_. Although, his underlying fear of being watched by the people of his city and recorded in the filthy booklet never faded, thus he took caution with his dancing minx.

"Come hither," he'd say, gesturing for the girl to near him with a gentle motion of his finger. He'd pour her a goblet of wine and press the rim to her lips, gently feeding her his poison before drinking from it as well. It was the closest he could come to kissing her, pressing his lips upon the rim of the goblet which held her lipstick's stain, without surrendering to the fear that his actions would be exposed in the bewitching booklet. And when their cup was empty, she'd return to her enchanting dance which was weighted with his stare and taken note of so that it could be reflected upon on lonely nights; and how odd that she'd succumb to him, for she had once ruled over a menacing organization, The Gold Arms.

But her defiance was never vanquished, for she unleashed her thoughts every night.

"Do not think that I come here for your pleasure," she said upon finishing her act. He smirked at her words, poured the wine, and attempted to be amused over her thoughts. "I will expose you," she continued, fiercely wrapping her cloak around her body as if his eyes had had the power to touch her as she had performed, "You have secrets."

"As so do you, my dear. I know of your crimes and so do your people. You're but a criminal among criminals." Swirling his bitter drink about his goblet, he grinned as he watched the horror overtake her face.

"You're lying," she sneered, gathering what was left of her dignity and crossing towards the door. But his words stopped her when she reached the door, and she inwardly cursed his name,

"I've not dismissed you yet," he said, strolling towards his desk and motioning for her to join him. Upon her approach, he gestured towards the candelabrum, "You may think that your precious horde is searching for you as we speak, but I assure you, my dear, they've long abandoned your reign by the mere touch of a flame."

She sharply glanced at him and twisted her red lips into a grimace, "You had them captured didn't you? Fiend!" Enraged, she swiped the candelabrum off the desk and glowered at him. But he hadn't the energy to engage in an argument and instead deliberately sustained his calmness in order to diminish her rage.

"It was all part of your plan, wasn't it?" she began with gritted teeth. "You knew that I took to the Gold Arms for refuge from my people in the night and so you locked them away, took the only safety I had left so that I'd come to you for shelter instead."

"You're a clever girl," he added, "but not clever enough." Closing in upon her, nearly bending her backwards atop his desk as he drew near, he smirked as he recalled the gypsy boy's words. "You led me to the storehouses that night, sought to have your members eliminate me, but they failed to deliver, did they not?"

"You can't possibly know that," she snapped.

"Ah, but I do. Their stumbling feet caused quite the commotion. They left you in my hands—you were never their leader, my dear. Well, no matter, you'll neither suffer from their betrayal nor the wrath of your people so long as you remain here."

"You're nothing but a trick," she said, "an illusion to make me fall as you did with Pierre."

"You speak that name so often, yet I assure you his soul never entered my courts."

"Liar," she sneered, "You strung him up upon the gibbet like an animal and took his life over his work." Raising an arm and swiping at him, he caught her by the wrist and mused over her hand which had been wrapped in a soft material.

"Your bandage is soiled," he stated, "Allow me." Gently, he began to unravel the dirty fabric, unwrapping her as if he would find her core in the center, her heart, and possibly her love. But she snatched her hand away from him before he could unveil her flesh.

"I've not laid a finger upon you in neither rage nor temptation, yet still you distrust me," he said.

"I'll always distrust you so long as my army goes unfound."

Frollo chuckled, "As much as I enjoy our meetings, my dear, I will return you to your kind should you continue to accuse me. I'll let them hang you for the crimes you refuse to admit you carried out."

His words failed to strike fear within her, and in rage she shoved him away. A few stray parchments upon his desk stirred and she caught a hold of a page as she had started for the door. Her eyes glanced over the words and then an amused grin consumed her face, but Frollo remained unfazed.

"A vulgar prose for a vulgar man," she stated, running the pad of her thumb along the words of _The Minister_ before tossing the page down into the flames of the few candles that had managed to keep their fire upon falling to the floor. Without another word, she left.

The room became silent and as Frollo ruminated over his parting words, the warning he had delivered, he sneered, for he knew he would never carry out such an act. The girl was far too precious to be bound and strung up with an ugly twine. As a means of clearing his mind, he began straightening the documents upon his desk, retrieved the fallen candelabrum, and crossed to the door in a means of calling forth Captain Phoebus.

However, he was already present and stood near the end of the corridor, discreetly conversing with the cloaked individual whom he had sworn was a figment of his imagination. And Frollo, curious as to what the two were sharing in the dark, quietly cracked open his door and strained to make sense of the inaudible words that struck his ears. But it was useless, and for the remainder of the night he sat awake in his private quarters, pondering the words his mistress and his captain had exchanged.


	7. The White Haired Soldier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to clear up any confusion, I have went back and edited chapters 1 through 6, making minor changes to sentence structure, adding detail where it ought to be, and slightly tweaking the time line (mainly because I wanted Quasi to be a minor instead of a young man; Esmeralda's age is relatively the same). Also, for those of you that are confused about the white haired soldier, he appeared in chapters 4 & 5; I had just never mentioned his blinding, white hair before, which is an error on my part, but all of that is fixed now.

The judge, stark shadows flickering across his judicial robe, mused before the flames of the fireplace with the image of the gypsy, Esmeralda, dancing upon his thoughts. Though it had been a month's time since her petite form had graced his private quarters, contorting into various sensual positions upon the floor, her scent lingered upon his flesh. It seared him and melted his being away until all that was left was a wisp of smoke and a bit of ash. Sneering, he recalled her erotic performance, her gyrating hips and flirtatious smirk, and how he yearned to snatch the teasing minx and satisfy the intense desire that lurked within, which had only been brought forth by the words of _The Minister._

"Read it," he had said upon approaching her from behind during one of their many nights spent together. She scowled as he placed the familiar red booklet in her hands and instinctively withdrew, colliding into his chest and summoning a low growl from his core. Without fastening her arms, securing her in his hold, he leaned into her, inhaled the scent of her hair, and repeated his demands,

"Read it lest I find another use for your lips."

She stiffened in agitation but succumbed nonetheless. Dragging her slender fingers along the yellowed page, she paused at a long winded verse and spoke the sensual words he longed to hear, read aloud in her husky voice.

"Possessed by passion, the Minister drew in sporadic breaths as he watched the prisoner he had become familiar with; she haunted him, woke him from blissful dreams in the night with a calm sigh and set his heart aflame with a mere breath, a small rise of her bosom. And he yearned to break the laws of sanctity and become one with her, two lovers wrestling with one another in fervent passion. . ."

As her voice trailed off, reverberating off of Frollo's skull, he immersed himself in her presence, parting her raven locks with his spindly fingers and brushing his lips against the nape of her neck. She didn't falter under the touch of his hands, never acknowledged his actions nor his lewd thoughts, which consisted of pulling her hips back into the pressing ache between his legs.

In the distance, the Notre-Dame bells tolled and roused the judge from his thoughts with a grimace. Those brass chimes shook the very foundation of the city and conjured up the image of his misshapen ward, Quasimodo. The boy had been rather disappointing in the last week, failing to advance in his studies and to abide by orders with his constant prattle of the Festival of Fools, a gathering of drunkards and sinners alike. Nevertheless, it displeased Frollo, and as punishment he forbade him to attend with a sharp strike to his cheek. However, the distorted figure of the unruly ward was chased from his troubled mind by a knock at the door.

"Good morning, sir," said Captain Phoebus with an outstretched arm, a letter clasped in his hand. "I found it appropriate to deliver this to you on my own accord."

Upon recognizing the wax seal, Frollo snatched the dense parchment from his soldier's grasp and scowled upon its contents; the letter was from the King. Though ten years ago he had been advised by a white-haired soldier of the King's guard (whose odd and disproportionate face was no less hideous than that of the misshapen bell ringer) to cease all communication with the throne, he had received several letters in the last month, demanding that his presence be made known at the Royal Château d'Amboise. He had found it peculiar that the letters were no longer delivered by the odd, white-haired soldier but by a young servant boy (whose presence was seldom tolerated due to Phoebus delivering the numerous letters to the judge himself), and he pondered the reasoning behind the King's approval of dismantling their ten year silence, for the ruler was an obstinate man. Nevertheless, Frollo had presented himself before the King upon receiving the first letter, which had arrived a fortnight prior:

"At last, thou hast come," the King had said upon Frollo's entrance, his judicial robe swaying to and fro as he sauntered into the Great Hall. It was vast, lined with thick columns that upheld a golden ceiling, intricately decorated with complex deigns; and an elongated table, filled with bowls of fruits and platters of broiled red meats, lay in the center, holding the King at the head. Impatient and deeply agitated, the ruler snapped his fingers, calling forth a languid servant boy, whose unruly hair and red-rimmed eyes mimicked sleep deprivation.

"Another goblet of wine," he said, gesturing towards Frollo. However, upon the judge's decline, which came in the form of a gentle wave of his pale hand, the King withdrew his order and shoved the boy away. And upon motioning for Frollo to be seated, he took a mouthful of roasted lamb into his mouth, frequently running his tongue along the front face of his teeth in a means of freeing any wedged strands in between.

"Time hath not been thy friend," the King started, fixing his gaze upon the old judge; ten years had left him withered but stark nonetheless. "Thine health is suffering from my proclamation?"

"Nay, Your Majesty," Frollo responded with a slight grimace; for his last encounter at the Royal Château d'Amboise had plagued his mind with the King's persistent threat of being broken upon the Catherine Wheel, coiled around the wooden spokes, limb by limb, and he held nothing but disdain.

"Thou hast enlisted a new captain. I must inquire thy reasoning."

"My last captain of the guard was sentenced to death for fraudulence and insubordination, thus Phoebus de Châteaupers holds his position." A wicked grin contorted the old judge's face at the thought of Christian Bonheur enduring his execution, beaten by the men he had once called comrades and humiliated before the city he had unfaithfully served, Paris.

"Ah," the King drawled, lifting his goblet to his lips and scarfing down the bitter drink. It seeped from the corners of his mouth and escaped, dribbling down his dimpled chin and bringing Frollo's lips to a scowl. After he quenched his thirst and motioned for the young boy, who had been lurking about the grand columns, to attend to him and dry his mouth, he began in displeasure,

"The smoke has ceased, and yet thou hast not satisfied me. The impudent bearer of the quill lives, thus such vulgar prose will be fashioned. Thou hast yet to strike him, cut off and cast away that which makes him sin."

"Your Majesty," Frollo started in a dry tone, "merely removing his appendage will not subdue his means of writing nor will it silence his lewd imaginings. It is better to do away with the soul that leads many astray than allow it to thrive."

"Thou speak with zeal," said the King, nodding in approval and talking another gulp of wine. "However, thou art ignorant of God's assertion: And if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off, and cast it from thee: for it is profitable for thee that one of thy members should perish, and not that thy whole body should be cast into hell." (Leviticus 18:30)

The judge withheld his indifference. Though the King had yearned to witness a vicious punishment of infinite lashing and humiliation, demanding that the hand of the condemned writer be disposed of, Frollo, whose name had been publicly disgraced and slandered by the prose, whose soul had been consumed by its erotic verses, yearned for the condemned writer's death, damning his heathenish soul to the depths of Hell where no fire lays waiting but only dark and frigid isolation.

"I presume a decade has not been sufficient," the King continued, musing over his goblet as he swirled the bitter drink about, "Thou hast other obligations than reporting thy ministrations before the throne?"

"I was informed by your soldier of your decree, Your Majesty. My visitations have been stagnant upon your order."

A great clamor erupted throughout the Great Hall as the goblet was brought down upon the table with force, wine saturating the table.

"Stagnant?!" the King bellowed. "Thy efforts in bringing forth the vile conspirator has been stagnant!" With a frown that appeared to be engraved onto his face, he, oblivious to his spilled drink and lashing out at the young servant boy, who hurriedly tended to him, shoved the boy away with a sneer. And Frollo, undeterred but bothered by the King's anger, merely brushed away the few droplets that had managed to find his judicial robe.

"Nevermore disrespect me," sneered the King, directing his eyes to Frollo. "I've been lenient, forgiven thee of thy error, but no more will my charity find thee. Make haste and capture the vulgar fiend who inks sin in blood, but do not waste thy time in bringing forth the fraudulent soldier thee declare delivered my declaration, for only the boy delivers my letters. Do with the false soldier as thou please. Now, be gone."

Phoebus faltered in the judge's peripheral, shuffled his feet as if his obligations of fulfilling his daily tasks were overwhelming him to the point that they crushed him, weighted down upon his broad shoulders, and left him restless. Nevertheless, Frollo was roused from his memory upon his meeting with the King, and he sneered and clutched the crisp letter in his hold, allowing the crinkling noise to extinguish any lingering, feuding thoughts.

"Have the servants prepare my coach. I've to leave without delay," said Frollo, tossing the King's letter, which summoned him to appear at the Royal Château d'Amboise once more, upon a nearby desk.

"Yes, sir," replied Phoebus. Yet, as he crossed towards the door Frollo brought him to a halt with a stern remark,

"I've not dismissed you, Captain." Following his statement were the faint tolls of the Notre-Dame bells in the distance, fading beneath the early bustle of the city life that rose and overpowered the elegant chimes.

"What have your discoveries been upon my recent instructions?" Frollo questioned, crossing to the open balcony with his hands clasped behind his back. He had ordered his captain to explore the name, Pierre, the name Esmeralda constantly prattled about, the name that highlighted her distrust in Frollo, for she deemed him responsible for the strange man's untimely death.

"No records were found pertaining to the name, Pierre. But nearly fifteen years ago there was record of a mystery being held in the Grand Hall of the Palais on January 6th, written by a man named, Pierre Gringoire."

"Intriguing," he drawled. "In my absence, you are to obtain the accounts of Gringoire's existence and lay them before me when I return. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very well, you are dismissed."

With a casual wave of the judge's hand, Phoebus exited and immediately acted upon his commands, fetching the servants to prepare the coach and gathering his men for a daily round about the city. And while he found his responsibility, regarding the investigation of the life of an unknown man, Pierre Gringoire, to be rather adventurous, Frollo resented his own responsibilities of being summoned to appear before the throne yet again. He considered it to be tedious and unreasonable; he felt that searching for the fraudulent, white-haired solider should be prioritized, aside from locating the Cour de Miracles and unraveling the identity of the vile writer of the unholy booklet, _The Minister._

* * *

Nearly two miles in route, secluded in his dark coach, Frollo delved into his thoughts, lowering his stern brow and fixing his lips into a hardened grimace. Suspicious and gravely bemused, he pondered the accounts of the white-haired solider and recalled his first meeting with the odd man. And only then did a growl emit from his core and he demanded the coachman return him to Paris.

"I've come to inquire about your letter bearer," he said upon entering the Notre-Dame, addressing his remarks to Archdeacon Charbonneau who moved about the pulpit. The old priest had suffered much under the weight of time's hands, but sufficed nonetheless. His back was arched as if his head was too heavy to lift, and his limp, which was due to his swollen feet, only worsened and gave him the appearance of a wounded dog.

"Minister Frollo, I hadn't expected you," Charbonneau started upon approaching the judge. "The boy has been quite a menace. He managed to—"

"Never you mind that," Frollo interrupted, seething with impatience. He had little tolerance for the old priest, deemed him senile. "It's your letter bearer I seek."

"Ah," Charbonneau started as if recalling an ancient idea, but his voice fell and his bushy, white brows furrowed. "I have no letter bearer." As he brought a hand to his chin, retiring to his thoughts, Frollo grimaced.

"Then in what manner was your letter delivered?"

Retiring to the decade old memory, Charbonneau recalled the day he ordered his scribe to record his words as he unleashed his thoughts and concerns about the screaming, misshapen toddler that had been left upon his church's steps by Frollo's guard in the middle of the night.

"It was delivered by your soldier," he said, crossing his arms and rustling his ivory cassock. "He presented himself under your guard—said he had come to look upon the child that had been left behind, but when he saw my scribe he offered to return to the Palace of Justice with the writing. I assume he delivered it to you under my name?"

Inwardly cringing, Frollo sought to strike down the old man for ignorance, for such a letter-bearing, white-haired soldier had never been employed under his guard. But he withheld from acting upon his anger as his being fell still under the crippling pressure of disdain at the sight of Captain Phoebus descending the spiral staircase which sat to the left. It was as if the captain was the sole catalyst to his inner conflict, swelling his demise until it became buoyant. Moving past the blubbering priest, he approached Phoebus with a scowl and disheartening words brewing in his core,

"Disregarding my orders, captain?"

"Nay, sir," Phoebus responded; it seemed as if his soul hadn't been stirred at the idea of being caught aimlessly loafing about by his master. "Your orders have been met. According to the commoners, Pierre Gringoire was a poet and not a very good one." He chuckled at the recollection of the Parisian man who had told him the account:

"The boy was a dope," the man had said, "His work was dull and so were his actors—heard the gypsies wreaked havoc upon his plays." He paused to unleash a throaty cackle. "They'd climb atop the stage and push the actors over, begging for alms!" Lost in a fit of madness, the man spiraled into a heinous laugh which ended in a thick, bloody cough.

"However," Phoebus began, tearing away from the thought of the sickly man, "I've yet to uncover the location of the Gold Arms."

"Pardon?" Frollo questioned with furrowed brows.

"The Gold Arms," Phoebus repeated casually, "You had requested that I locate them, sir. The young maiden in the dark cloak had informed me of your wishes—said you desired the group's location. I found it appropriate to question your ward. I assumed he might have seen the army lurking about the city from the bell towers."

Frollo sneered, "I gave no such orders." However, his captain had no means of response, for he brushed him aside as his mind became consumed with the poisonous explanation to the troubling scene he had once spied from his private quarters a few months prior: Captain Phoebus discreetly conversing with Esmeralda in the dark corridor beyond his private quarters.

Ascending the stairs to the bell tower with a curse upon his lips and fury in his soul, he overturned the malicious idea that she had outwitted him, spoke false orders to his ignorant captain in the shadows of the corridors as a means of locating her men and setting off with them in the night without his knowledge. Yet, when he entered the bell tower he found tranquility: Quasimodo's calm shadow smothered the left wall and his voice, soft and incoherent, filled the tower and entered the deaf ears of the stone gargoyles which were situated around him as if in congregation.

"Where do you think she's gone?" the boy asked, looking to his stone companions for an answer.

And they gave him one.

"Somewhere far," said one of the gargoyles, one whose frame was small and back was hunched.

"But not too far," said another, whose height towered over the boy and whose deep voice shook him, "or else she'll lose her way when returning back to Paris to see Quasimodo,"

"Oh no, she wouldn't travel all this way to see me," the boy replied with a frown, allowing his spirits to fall to the ground and gather round his feet. However, the taller gargoyle, upon attempting to shift his weight towards the boy in a means of comforting him, began addressing his sentiments until a towering shadow feel upon him, nearly splitting his stone body apart from that of Quasimodo like a dagger.

"You are a heedless boy," said Frollo, nearing the small congregation with disdain upon his face. He hadn't fancied the thought of his ward holding conversations with unanimated objects, and lurking in the shadows of the bell tower, attentively listening to the boy conjure up a mix of voices for his stone companions, giving them life with his damaged imagination, only set anger aflame in his being.

"M-master," the boy stuttered, turning around with a start and slowly withdrawing to the wall of gargoyles behind him until the hump on his back met with them, "I hadn't known you were coming."

"Ah, but you had knowledge of my captain's arrival?"

Shaking his head and struggling to find his words, Quasimodo refrained from looking up and instead focused upon the wooden floorboards. If he could have relied upon his stone friends to aid him, he would have; he'd have hidden behind their grotesque faces, taking to their wings for shelter and depending upon their brave, stone hearts to save him. But Frollo's presence, though dark and dense, acted like a cruel light and shed truth upon his misery, reminding him that such unanimated objects were not capable of speech. Yet, Quasimodo, somewhat courageous before his stone companions, managed to speak through his despair,

"He asked for my help."

"And you offered it to him?"

Quasimodo silently nodded and a loud crash followed; it sent tremors throughout the bell tower and left the boy frightened as Frollo turned over a gargoyle in vehemence.

"Fool!" he shouted, extending out an arm and singling out the boy from his stone brethren with a lone finger, "Mindless fool!"

Quasimodo lowered his head until his chin was pressed against his chest and attempted to avert his eyes from the scene before him: his enraged master and the cracked stone lying upon the floor with broken horns and a shattered face. Inwardly pleading and hoping for his body to vanish, to morph into the stone gargoyles behind him, blending within their hunched backs and grimacing faces, he shrank back and cowered away. And in an attempt to defend his pitiful actions and calm Frollo's rage, he repeated his stance,

"H-he asked for my help."

But Frollo sneered at his response, glowered at him down the length of his nose. And as he sauntered past him, sweeping aside the fragments of stone that had chipped off of the fallen gargoyle, he set aside his anger with the conclusion that the boy's malformation was not only physical but mental. And Quasimodo, burying his face within his gargantuan hands in a means hiding from his troubles and humiliation, found that his lack of comprehension and unruly nature set a punishment in place.

"Your distortion prohibits you from the simple ability to grasp common knowledge," Frollo began in a dark tone, "You are heedless to my instructions and refuse to acknowledge your misconduct."

Quasimodo, though hiding his sniveling face, remained still under the weight of Frollo's voice and inevitably took blame for his ill behavior as he recalled his procrastination over the tower of books he had been assigned to study. But as Frollo's dense footsteps echoed about him, he lowered his hands and dared to spy his master, who crossed towards the large, wooden table that was cluttered with his most precious belongings: carving tools, figurines, and blocks of wood.

"You are to remove these obstacles by dawn," said Frollo, grimacing as he overlooked the carvings, "And should I find but one item remaining, I'll make certain that you ring the bells no more."

Quasimodo refrained from speaking and whether it was due to his acceptance of blame or the agonizing knot that grew in his throat, he hadn't known. Nevertheless, though disheartened at the idea of ridding his lonely tower of the miniature, Parisian figurines he had created and come to love, he hadn't the capability to fathom his life without the brass bells that chimed their way into his life; for he adored them as much as he adored the idea of slipping out from the cathedral and venturing into the outside world; the bells were his freedom, his only means of communicating his feelings to the city he yearned to be a part of.

"Yes, master," said Quasimodo in a dry tone. He rose to numb feet, hobbled towards the table, and collected his wooden creations, handling them with care as if each one was a living being. However, as he reached for a particular figurine, one that had been carved in the form of a woman, Frollo, bemused by the statuette, snatched it from the boy's hand and furrowed his brows upon examining it.

The face held sharp corners and resembled no one, yet the attire, a dark skirt with trinkets lining the hem, proved it to be of gypsy origin. But it was the raven tresses, specifically the strip of fabric that was wrapped about the right hand as if it were a bandaged wound, which brought the image of Esmeralda to Frollo's troubled mind. And before he could question the boy about her existence among his carvings, the poorly wrapped bandage fell off of the small figurine's hand, revealing a painted red gash along the palm and a familiar emerald ring about the middle finger; _his ring._


End file.
